BBC Sherlock Ep1 Color Theory
by Dracomancer
Summary: Eleanor Blackburn is seeking to solve her brother's murder, but along her journey Lestrade suggests she seeks out the world's only consulting detective who happens to be in need of a flat mate...and in the middle of trying to solve a recent mass suicide case involving alarming shades of pink.
1. The Solution

**Welcome to my BBC Sherlock Fanfiction Series**

As a warning to readers, unless you have seen the show, this will act as a huge spoiler for you.

This fanfiction is being written as if you have seen the show, but if you have not then consider this a considerable taste as to what Sherlock is all about. For followers who have been with me since the beginning, or nearly since the beginning, you know the routine of how I usually do fanfiction series. If I love something enough, an original character (OC) and fanfiction is usually to follow.

For those who are new to my accounts, then know that the basic gist of what I do is I start from the beginning of a series and then carefully weave my OC into the canon story without majorly changing the canon events. Even though this is fanfiction, I do not consider that an excuse to take canon characters and do whatever I want. That is a no no in my book. I do my best to keep the canon characters _in character_ even when interacting with my OC/s. So rest assured, this isn't some underdeveloped story with no research or love for the show or lazy writing in the form of a badly put together fantasy.

This is a fanfiction series that pays due respect to the original content _as best as humanly possible_. With that said, let the Sherlocking commence!

**Ch.1 The Solution**

Heavy breathing. Sweat upon the brow. Moaning. A nightmare disturbing its victim. A young girl tangled in the web of a killer, forcing her to act. _Gunshot_.

"Ah!" Eleanor gasped audibly upon awaking in her bed, flooded memories of a past long since over but to never be forgotten. Her body tensed as her eyes fixated on the ceiling, the very empty pale white textured ceiling. Tears formed in her eyes after gathering most of her composure as she finally sat up in bed. Her studio was quiet and barren as it has always been, decorated with but a few keepsakes that held fragments of her life, fragments she couldn't look at for too long without feeling an ache in her heart. The only real thing of value in her place was her computers and gadgets that hinted of the technologies new and lightly old. It was probably the one thing she voluntarily kept up with, otherwise everything else…

_…was just a blur._

"It's been a while," she thought out loud to herself as she realized it has been a very long time since she had nightmares of her past, but not just any past, a very _particular_ past event, but why today? Why now? It felt so out of place. Normally nightmares are produced by day to day emotions and events. Nightmares of an event that has long since been put out of mind normally don't happen out of random unless the dreamer was specifically thinking upon that event within a recent period of time, but it's been years…_years_ since she thought of back then. She couldn't help but receive an odd feeling from this dream, but not necessarily of anything that boded a bad omen, just simply that something was to come, something was going to change.

Today the lease to her studio ends. She could have easily bought it with the money she received from the inheritance to her father and stepmother's death, but she found that living at one place for too long was of a nagging discomfort. Like technology, she welcomed change or at least anything to bring some distraction to her life, something new to look forward to. _Anything_ to take her mind off the now, but first things first.

Looking at the clock it read around the noon time. Seems she had slept past her alarm once again, but nothing to fret about since her meeting with Inspector Lestrade was within an hour. This gave her plenty of time to wake up, shower, have coffee, a bite to eat and then a drive over to the station.

Beep. Bong. Beep.

The phone rattled with a tone upon receiving a txt twenty minutes later. Having just stepped out of the shower, Eleanor went over to the kitchen counter to pick it up.

_[Sorry, meeting has to be cancelled. Emergency press conference. –Lestrade]_

"Damn it," Eleanor muttered in light irritancy, but nothing out of the ordinary. She's gone to the press conferences before and knew exactly where to go.

_-Press Conference-_

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

The room was a bit small, but it only needed to host a moderate space for a select number of people since this was a press conference and not specifically for the public to budge in on, but Eleanor more or less had no problem getting in. She wasn't close friends with Lestrade, but he was the main official that was helping her on small occasions to solve the still unsolved mystery murder of her brother that was quite a few years ago. The only reason Lestrade has stopped trying to convince her to let go of the case is because she's, on her own and to his surprise, been discovering small leads to the whereabouts of the killer. Lestrade does what he can in helping her find clues, but more less is usually busy with the ongoing crimes of the city that are much more important _and recent_. On the rarest of occasions Eleanor has inadvertently helped with leads to crimes here and there since she has nothing better to do and gets an intriguing amusement out of trying to solve cases. That's the only other reason Lestrade even lets her parade around, but more or less she's respectful and does her best not to interfere too much or tamper with evidence.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" a reporter asked as Lestrade took a breath before answering, "Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of—"

"—but you can't have serial suicides," the reporter interrupted as Eleanor rolled her eyes since the very definition of _serial_ can be just simply a series of things or events. Lestrade wonderfully responded exactly what she was thinking, "Well apparently you _can._"

"These three people; there's nothing that links them?" Another reporter asked.

"There's no link been found _yet,_ but we're looking for it. There has to _be_ one," Lestrade fumbled in words a bit. If there's one thing Eleanor gave him credit for was facing the press with their questions, as stupid as they might seem at times. It's never easy facing the public.

"_Of course_ there's something that links them. There's _always_ something that links them," Eleanor muttered to herself while standing in the back of the room. She couldn't help but find it ironic that she was attending a press conference about a mass suicide case. It reeked of reminiscence of years ago when she got tangled up in a similar situation during a mass suicide case when she was in her teens. It was a case she _couldn't stop remembering._ The thought alone sent an unpleasant chill up her spine.

Without given warning, the entire room suddenly erupted in a musical symphony of cell phone message beeping as it seemed everyone's phone, _except Eleanor's_ lit up with a viral text message.

_[Wrong!]_

With a rather quizzical expression on her face, Eleanor peered over at a phone that a gentleman was holding and read the text.

"What the bloody hell?" She muttered again to herself. However, as strange as this was it didn't seem like anyone was concerned let alone that surprised.

Donovan immediately spoke up, "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

"It says _wrong_," a reporter read aloud what was texted.

"Yeah, well just ignore that…" she easily dismissed in a lightly annoyed state of wording "…Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

Eleanor couldn't help but notice Donovan's easy dismissal and the odd look upon Lestrade's face. Had he received a text like this before? It wasn't often she saw him so she wasn't too entirely aware of what was going on.

"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" a reporter continued to ask.

Lestrade paused for a second before replying, "As I say, these suicides are _clearly linked_. Um…i-it's an _unusual_ situation. We've got our best people investigating—"

Another viral text flashed through everyone's phone as reporters looked down and read _[Wrong!]_ across their bright little screens. Eleanor peered over again to be witness to what seemed like a normality for Lestrade's team.

_"Who the hell is sending that?"_ She wondered.

"It says _wrong_ again," a reporter exclaimed aloud.

"One more question…" Donovan explained as a reporter immediately spoke up "…Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

_Serial killer_ was one phrase that always puts a dark damper on a room full of people, but for a room full of _reporters_ it was the best kind of damper. Lestrade sighed again as he explained, "I…I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was _clearly_ self administered."

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well, _don't commit suicide_," Lestrade continued to answer in blank sarcasm that Eleanor found both amusing and _rather stupid_. She was nearly tempted to try to get involved on the loose chance that this mass suicide has anything to do with the one years ago. It was a thought more or less and not too far from being a logical theory even if it was a loose one at best. Donovan lightly murmured at Lestrade, "Daily mail," as he continued, "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone _has to do_ is exercise _reasonable precautions._ We are all as safe as we want to be."

"Or as dead as we want to be," Eleanor muttered to herself for a third time as the room suddenly sounded again with a familiar text message.

_[Wrong!]_

Lestrade however received a rather different text message as it read, _[You know where to find me. –SH]_.

With the conference finally over as Lestrade was given a chance to breathe, he nodded his head with a given "Thank you" to the room while standing and leaving with Donovan, but of course not without finally making eye contact with Eleanor at the back of the room. She was rather easy to spot out since it wasn't often he saw a woman with a signature red head and green eyes. He wasn't in the least bit surprised that she was there, but it was also the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment.

_-Scotland Yard-_

"You've _got_ to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots," Donovan lightly barked at Lestrade while Eleanor caught up with them and followed behind. "You've done a fine work with doing that yourself," the former psychologist lightly murmured as Donovan gave a quick glancing glare back at Eleanor before bringing her attention back to Lestrade.

"Well, if you can tell me _how_ he does it, I'll stop him."

"Stop who?" Eleanor asked, hoping to finally get an answer to the strange viral text messaging bit.

"It's nothing," Donovan quickly answered nonchalantly as Eleanor quipped, "I'm glad you feel your opinion matters but I wasn't asking _you_."

Lestrade took another deep breath and answered quickly in hopes to keep Donovan and Eleanor from entering another cat fight, "It was Sherlock."

The three paused in silence for a moment before Eleanor finally questioned, "And…that's supposed to be…who?"

"No one that matters," Donovan stated in interruption again.

"You have such an _amazing_ bloody fascination with believing your opinion matters. You might want to get that checked out," Eleanor quipped again with a wink.

"You know if I didn't know any better—"

"—I absolutely agree! You _don't_ know any better."

"Eleanor…_please_," Lestrade urged since it seemed a never ending battle of verbal spewing between Donovan and Eleanor.

"Sorry Inspector, you were going to say?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's uh…uh—"

"—a what?"

"Consulting detective, if you can even call him that."

"Consulting detective? What kind of a job is that?"

"Not one I care to explain to be honest. That aside I know why you're here and I _don't have time._"

Eleanor was going to speak up in light protest as she opened her mouth, but Lestrade quickly cut her off, "_But_…I think I have a solution to your…_problem_. Donovan if you don't mind?"

Lestrade gave her one look that was indication of him and Eleanor needing some privacy as she caught the hint and replied back sarcastically, "Not at all," and walked away.

"You said you had a solution?"

"Yes. Your lease is up today am I correct?"

Eleanor blanked for a moment as she responded, "Uh…Lestrade…I know you're a busy man, but when you stated you had a _solution_ I thought you were stating—"

"—it is, just…maybe not in the way you were thinking. Remember when you asked me a few months back that if I found anyone…_anyone_ that had a gift for solving crimes that I should contact you immediately?"

"Yes…" she replied a bit puzzled, but intuitively jumped where he was going with this "…let me guess…Sherlock?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, but she already stated what he was going to say as he continued, "Uh…yes. As much as I hate to admit it…I think Sherlock could help you because honestly you're brother's case…it's—"

"—beyond you?"

Lestrade sighed. It's not that he didn't care or was trying to wipe his hands of the matter…or maybe he was…either way he felt that Sherlock would be a better route for her to go down then what he could ever provide.

"You say he's a solution I should check out and yet you regrettably state things like _as much as I hate to admit it_. Be frank with me Lestrade. Why did you say that?"

"Because…it's…uh…" sighing "…it's complicated. I've known him for a while. He's a detective I usually go to for…a second opinion."

"I see. _Consulting_ detective."

"Yes."

"Interesting title."

"He came up with it _himself._"

Eleanor chuckled out loud, "Well, sounds a bit arrogant for some reason."

"You have _no idea_."

"Does he work for you?"

"No."

"So wait a minute, why did you ask about my lease then?"

"Because Sherlock just so happens to be looking for a flat mate."

The redhead opened her mouth to speak, but she found it difficult to form words as the idea hit her blindsided. She looked around a bit distracted for a moment by the hustle and bustle of the office as officers rushed about their business. Placing her hands upon her hips the idea brewed further as she finally brought her gaze back to Lestrade, wondering if he had been drinking recently.

"Wh…how…ha, ha, are you kidding me? So if I understand you correctly, you want me…to just waltz on up to some strange detective that _isn't even on your force_, which by the way how does that even make him a detective, and then propose that we be flat mates when we don't even know each other and then suddenly belt out the idea to him that _oh by the way, my brother was murdered and the case was never solved, but Lestrade thought you could help me out with that, how about it ol' chap?_ Would you like some bloody tea?"

"Calm down. It was merely a suggestion."

"Suggestion? You call _that_ a suggestion? What makes you think he would even be interested for me as a flat mate let alone wanting to take the case? Has he even gone to school for that sort of work?"

"Look, Eleanor, you've moved at least what…five times in the city? And you're all alone trying to solve a murder case that has long since been buried."

"I've found leads—"

"—and have nearly found yourself dead on a few occasions. It's not healthy."

"Healthy? How the hell would you know what healthy is?"

Lestrade gave her _that look_ as she realized her mouth went away with her a bit too far.

"Sorry…I…that's not what I meant to say. I know you're worried about me and I really do appreciate it, but—"

"—you've got nothing else to lose Eleanor. If you don't like him, which I can guarantee you won't, then you're not obligated to say yes. If nothing else at least see if he'll take your case. He might find it interesting, at least more interesting than 200 plus studies of tobacco ash."

Eleanor laughed in response, doing a double take on Lestrade's wording, "What did you just say? Studies of toba—wait a minute. Tobacco ash. Sherlock…oh god blast my memory. Sherlock Holmes…the science of deduction."

"The one and only."

"I thought I recognized that name before. Oh god, now I just feel stupid. I was wondering why that name sounded so familiar."

Finally recollecting the identity of this detective, now she was admiringly intrigued by the idea, but the real question is would Sherlock be even remotely as intrigued?

"Alright, where can I find him?"


	2. Deduction of an Introduction

**Ch.2 Deduction of an Introduction**

_Zip._

A body bag is quickly unzipped by idle steady hands ready to uncover what has seemingly been put to rest unwillingly. Dead bodies would normally make any average person weary, but Sherlock was anything _but average_.

_Sniff._ "How fresh?"

"Just in. 67, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice," Molly stated with a cheerful smile on her face in an uplifted tone despite the fact that the man she was complimenting, _was dead,_ while circling around Sherlock.

_Re-zip._ "Fine…" turning his body posture towards Molly "…we'll start with the riding crop," he states with a smile.

Upon leaving the room and letting Sherlock go about his business, Molly watched from the viewing room as the detective whipped with fearsome strikes upon the body's lifeless form. After numerous relentless walloping, Sherlock finishes with an exasperated yet satisfied exhale as Molly enters back into the room with a light banter followed by a small chuckle, "So, bad day was it?"

Ignoring her banter he states scientifically, "I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

Pulling out a small notebook and writing utensil, Sherlock began to take notes as Molly finally nerved up the bravery to ask, "Listen, I was wondering…maybe later when you're finished—"

"—are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before," Sherlock interrupted in inquiry after realizing Molly's lips were much more noticeable than usual and finding it oddly pleasant to look at.

Molly was caught by surprise as she replied in a stammer, "I, uh…I refreshed it a bit."

She smiled at the light notion that he _actually noticed_, but his expression didn't match the sentiment as his mind was still in a processing mode, looking back down at his notes, "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" She asked in a cautiously flirtatious manner.

Closing his booklet he turns towards her with a logical response, "Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs," and then nods accordingly while walking away towards his destination.

Molly sighed, taking the obvious hint _if it even was a hint_ while left to attend to the dead man she complimented earlier, "Okay."

_-Bart's Lab-_

Just as quick as his thinking, Sherlock made short work of a petri dish he was currently studying amongst the vast amounts of equipment and chemicals scattered about the lab. It was silent for a bit of time before Sherlock heard steps coming down the hall, making note it was three people from the amount of steps being made and soon enough a double knock upon the door before it opened with a light creak. Two gentlemen and a redheaded woman entered as Sherlock gave a quick observing glance over at the room's new occupants. One man had a limp with a cane as support, the other was Mike who Sherlock personally knew, and the third…

_…oh the third._

Sherlock did a double take at the woman, finding her to have a strange display of familiarity, but wasn't quite sure why. Seconds before the woman looked up to meet his gaze, he had already looked away to continue fiddling with the petri dish.

"Well, a bit different from my day," the man with the cane stated.

"You've no idea," Mike replied in a chuckle.

Sitting in a nearby stool Sherlock asked, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

Eleanor and the other man glanced at Sherlock before Mike replied, "Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Uh, here, use mi—" "—you can use mine." The man and Eleanor inadvertently interrupted each other upon offering the same courtesy to Sherlock. They looked at each other for a moment and chuckled lightly while Sherlock observed the two in amusement.

"Um…heh, you can use his," Eleanor suggested openly while tilting her head at the man and it was then she finally met Sherlock's gaze with another chuckle, finding his stare strangely proverbial, but why she wondered. Something was a bit odd, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

He broke the gaze as he focused it back to the other man in a friendly tone, "Oh. Thank you."

After briefly glancing at Mike, he stood up to go grab the phone.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson. The lovely lady beside him is someone we met briefly down the hall while coming to the lab. What did you say your name was Miss?"

"Blackburn…" she answered accordingly as Sherlock grabbed the phone from Watson, but not without giving her another glance as she caught it and received a small chill up her spine "…E-Eleanor…Blackburn."

Sherlock didn't look away until she had answered her full name, but he didn't say anything, just merely _observed her._ Turning away while flipping the phone open as he began to text, Sherlock openly asked in a lightly blunt manner, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The question hit John blindsided as Eleanor glanced at him in an odd pondering as to what Sherlock was referring to in his inquiry, although Mike was all too familiar with Sherlock's habits of first introductions. John did a double take as he nearly stammered in a quiet tone, "Sorry?"

Pausing in his typing Sherlock looked over at John and asked again, "Which was it…Afghanistan or Iraq?" before continuing to text rapidly upon Watson's phone. The doctor could only look at Mike again in bewilderment as his old friend smiled back with a light glare hitting his lenses. He then glanced briefly at Eleanor, but she looked just as baffled as _he did._

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you kn—"

_Door creak._

"—ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," Sherlock interrupts upon looking up to find Molly entering the room as he hands John's phone back. Upon reaching for the coffee as Molly came out from behind Watson, Sherlock noticed something odd about Molly's lips as he stated out loud in blunt examination, "What happened to the lipstick?"

Feeling a bit awkward Molly answered regrettably, "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now," he stated openly in a logical fashion as he always did, causing Eleanor to jaw drop lightly. She had received rude comments before from men that were nothing short of sexist, but this was just _so bluntly honest_ that it nearly made her laugh as she watched Sherlock turn his back nonchalantly and walk away while sipping on the brown coffee mug.

"Okay," Molly replied again as she did in a similar fashion in the mortuary, turning away and going towards the door to leave.

"Do you normally wear men's shoes?" Sherlock now directed his observational inquiries at Eleanor, causing her jaw to drop a bit lower as she stammered, "Uh…they're uh…more comfortable? And if I might add, they're better at running in then some annoying high heel."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and glanced at her momentarily again. Her shoes weren't completely masculine as they were simple ankle high leather boots with a fancy buckle strap. The toes weren't as square shaped and didn't stick out nearly as long. They were androgynous in style more or less and could actually be worn by both sexes and still come off classy, but _nonetheless_ they were indeed a line of men's shoes. Most interesting enough is that they weren't any type of sports shoe and neither was her outfit. So it was all the more attention-grabbing that she would make a statement about _running away_.

It's a strong indication of one thing being, that she's been in trouble before, possibly assaulted, but not necessarily in trouble with the law since Lestrade texted him about her being a possible flat mate and she was on her way to meet him. Lestrade would never suggest a flatmate to Sherlock if they had a history or recent history or having trouble with the law, not to mention the fact that he purposely pointed out her fashion choice to hear her response, but she surprisingly didn't respond back in insult or disgust.

"Lestrade has never mentioned you until today and yet I wonder, have we met before?"

Eleanor paused as Mike and John looked at her before she responded in wonder, "That's ironic you ask that because…I was wondering the same thing."

Leaving the thought alone for the moment, Sherlock attended back to typing on a nearby keyboard as he now pointed a question at both Eleanor and John, "How do both of you feel about the violin?"

The two strangers glanced at each other as they tried to keep up with Sherlock's randomized questions, but with logical reasoning no doubt as John responded after receiving another smile from Mike, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you two?" Looking at them both Sherlock continued in quick talk, "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," as he then smiled again in strange and almost false manner, leaving John and Eleanor in a paused hush. Not only did Sherlock openly accept the idea of having Eleanor as a flatmate without really any hesitation of the idea, but John as well. And considering that Mike introduced John to Sherlock, Eleanor could only concur that Sherlock neither knew her _nor John_. It was one thing to room with one person she had no clue about, but two? Not to mention they were both males so it made the idea all the more awkward. However, strangely enough she got a pleasant calm vibe from John and didn't seem to rub her the wrong way in the least, but still it was a precarious proposal of sorts.

In rational conclusion John assumed of Mike, "Oh you…you told him about me?"

Mike merely shook his head while looking at a chemical tube as he replied, "Not a word."

Shifting uncomfortably about, John glanced back over at Sherlock as he asked, "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did…" Sherlock answered calmly while putting on his coat "…told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan and then we have Lestrade giving the same proposal with a woman that has a strangely sensible taste in men's fashion. Wasn't that difficult a leap," he topped off upon wrapping his scar around his neck while looking back at the two with yet another smile.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's examining quips.

Ignoring the question, Sherlock responded while walking towards them, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we all ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Eleanor has never dealt with anyone that talked so quickly and in such intelligible speech, not to mention how easily Sherlock noticed her shoes, but what was more intriguing was the statement he made about John. Studying from how he stated his words, Sherlock didn't make his statement in the form of an assumption, but the form of knowledge based on an _observation_. No, better worded as…

…_a deduction_.

She couldn't help but feel that this was but a small taste of the tip of the iceberg that was Sherlock Holmes. He talked so quickly that she didn't really have a chance to fully comprehend what just happened let alone get a word or thought in on the renting situation before realizing that she inadvertently agreed to flatmating with two strange males. Of all the choices and strange situations she had been in, in her life, this was definitely going to be added to her list. Before she knew it, Sherlock had already made his idle chat and then went behind her and John while reaching for the door.

"Wait, what are you doing with a riding crop in a mortuary?" Eleanor lightly asked, but her question was drowned out by John asking more audibly, "Is that it?"

The question was enough to stop Sherlock as he circled back around with a lightly annoyed expression on his face before replying, "Is that what?" as he then placed his hands in his pockets and approached John and Eleanor who were standing next to each other in equal bafflement.

"We've only just met and we're all gonna go and look at a flat?"

Sherlock was unfazed by the question as he responded, "Problem?"

John was not amused as he merely chuckled in disbelief while looking across at Mike to see if his expression matched his own, but Mike continued to smile innocently, but of course not so innocently. This was becoming a bit annoying as he quickly questioned Eleanor, "And what do you think? Is this not a bit odd for you as well?"

Then everyone looked at her _including Sherlock_ as she became a bit nervous. She wasn't fond of being the center of attention even if it was for a brief moment as she stammered, "I…uh…well…of course it's a bit odd…but I like _odd_…_and_ violins."

Sherlock almost smiled at her quipped compliment. She smiled genuinely back. He wasn't at all used to compliments since normally people insulted him on a day to day basis. John shook his head finding it uncomfortable that he was really the only one having an issue with the situation.

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting and I don't even know your name."

Sherlock took one look closely at him before he presented his way of deduction, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John looked down upon his leg with Sherlock as he shifted about uncomfortably with his cane.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Without further interruption Sherlock went for the door again, opening it halfway with the edge of its frame planted against his chest before he further stated at the two, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street." He then winked before looking at Mike with a common mannered courtesy, "Afternoon." Mike nodded with a raised finger as the consultant then left the room, leaving Eleanor and John a bit estranged.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

Eleanor could only smile in an audible chuckle, "Fascinating. Could only imagine what he could deduce about me…aside from the…uh…shoes."

_-221 B Baker Street-_

Eleanor sat patiently upon the small double step that was at the bottom of the flat's doorway as she finally spotted John approaching with his cane simultaneously when a black shiny cab pulled up. Standing to her feet and dusting herself off, she smiled at John and shook his hand.

"Nice to see you again."

John smiled back, "Likewise" and then used the golden knocker and knocked upon the door with a double tap.

A gentleman then got out of the taxi as the two looked over and realized it was Sherlock.

"Hello," he stated while bidding the cabby goodbye with payment, "Thank you."

John responds first upon reaching his hand out to greet him, "Ah, Mr. Holmes," to which the detective immediately responded, "Sherlock, please."He then brought his hand out to shake Eleanor's as she smiled lightly and repeated his name, "Sherlock." "Eleanor, was it?" He asked in repetition of the politeness. "Yes," she answered.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive," John commented upon looking at the door and the surrounding area.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out," Sherlock explained in simple manner, surprising Eleanor and John a bit.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?" John further questioned.

"Oh no, _I ensured it_," Sherlock answered back with a playful smile.

"Well that's a comforting thought," Eleanor commented as the door suddenly opened behind her, causing her to move aside as Sherlock was quick to greet the woman that came out the doorway with a warm and quick hug.

"Sherlock, hello!"

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson and Eleanor Blackburn," Sherlock introduced while standing lightly behind Eleanor.

"Hi," Eleanor responded politely as Mrs. Hudson motioned them to come in, Eleanor entering first. Then John came second with a "Thank you," and thirdly Sherlock with an audible, "Shall we?" as Mrs. Hudson replied, "Yeah," and then closed the door behind them. Sherlock was first to quickly go up the stairs as Eleanor allowed John to go in front of her since it was more polite to let a man with a cane go before her up the stairs. The detective waited at the top by the door with a light eagerness as he watched John hobble up the stairs and then Eleanor. When they were all finally at the top, Sherlock then opened the door to reveal the contents inside.

Upon entry there were bits of furniture like a cough, small table with a chair, two sofa chairs, and some book cases, two of which were built into the wall and completely filled with books already. Most noticeably there was an animal skull on the wall that faces the door and it had headphones around it. Eleanor thought that was a cute touch as she went over to the kitchen where Sherlock was standing in front of.

"Oh this could be very nice…" John stated while walking towards them "…very nice indeed."

"I agree," Eleanor stated as Sherlock nodded his head in compliance, "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts _precisely_."

"I think it's really cozy—" "—so I went straight ahead and moved in—" "—soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…oh."

The trio spoke simultaneously in interruption of each other as they stated their own thoughts, only to find that John's comment was a bit…out of place as he realized what Sherlock was saying. Eleanor admitted to herself in thought that of course the style of everything wasn't in her particular tastes, but nonetheless she still found it cozy.

"So this is all—"

"—well, obviously I can, um…" clears throat while shuffling about half heartedly tossing a few things into a box "…straighten things up a bit," finalizing his statement with taking a stack of envelopes, placing them upon the mantelpiece over the fireplace and stabbing the stack with a small knife.

Upon looking at the fireplace with John, Eleanor stated in near simultaneous expression, "Is that a human skull—" "—that's a skull." Finding they were talking at the same time again, John and Eleanor glanced at each other with a bit of an odd expression before turning their attention back on Sherlock as he answered, "Friend of mine…" awkward pause "…when I say _friend_," but he didn't finish his sentence as Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"What do you think Dr. Watson? Mrs. Blackburn—"

"—not a Mrs. Just a Ms. And please, just call me Eleanor."

"Alright, Eleanor it is," Mrs. Hudson responded positively with a smile while picking up a cup and saucer as Sherlock stripped himself of his coat and scarf. "Since it will be the three of you, the bedrooms might be proving to be a slight quandary. There's a bedroom upstairs and considering there will be a lady in the flat…a lady always needs her privacy."

John looked at Eleanor as he realized a room would have to be shared. Sherlock merely glanced at the two and observed them quietly while shuffling about.

"I um…it's…n-not necessary. I mean yes I will require a bit of privacy, but the only room I'll really need is a place to put my computers and a few trinkets. That's about it. I don't mind sharing a bed. I think it would be a nice change at least if it's not too…awkward…inappropriate?"

Sherlock continued to take down mental notes as John was a bit taken back by Eleanor's suggestion. She didn't seem to be offering to share a bed in a flirtatious manner, however her words were polite and considerate.

"I could sleep on the couch—"

"—no really, I don't mind. I'm assuming the bedroom upstairs has a bed that can easily fit two people?"

"Yes and a bathroom as well," Hudson answered.

"See? Besides, you're injured and I doubt the couch would provide _as much_ comfort."

She smiled again as John lightly smiled back in agreement, "Well then, I guess a shared bedroom it is."

"_Sherlock_, the mess you've made," Hudson commented openly as she took one look at the kitchen table and sighed since it was completely covered with lab equipment. Shaking her head she went about tidying up a bit.

To the left of him was the bigger and softer sofa chair as John plopped himself into it. Eleanor then sat herself across from him in the black leather chair to the right as they both watched Sherlock still messing about with his things.

"Gentleman, before we go any further with anything I'd like to make a proposal on top of us flatmating together."

The two looked at her as Eleanor continued, "Don't worry about paying rent…any of it."

Sherlock and John raised their eyebrows as John openly asked out of a necessary curiosity, "Why?"

"Because I'm…going to be paying for it…_entirely._"

John glanced at Sherlock, Sherlock glanced at John, but of course John was a bit taken off guard by this proposal more than Sherlock was as the detective found it all the more intriguing and now intent on listening to what she was saying.

Watson protested, "Um, is that really necessary? I mean when you say all of the rent—"

"—I really do mean _all of it_. Look the way I see it, I'm going to take a wild guess and say that Sherlock doesn't have a job…" her comment causing Sherlock to shift his facial expression ever so lightly "…at least not one that has even been mentioned and considering you haven't denied Sherlock's claim about you being released from the military, that means you're on military pension and I know that doesn't pay enough, at least not enough to cover a place like this. _So_, I'm offering…actually it's not really an offer…I'm _going to_ take full responsibility for the rent."

Eleanor was more quick witted then people normally assumed about her as Sherlock didn't say a word since John naturally provided a nice filler for conversation to unintentionally extract information through his verbal protests on the matter, "And what exactly do you do for a living?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"I don't do _anything_ except be bored half out of my mind most of the time. Besides I…" sighing a little as she repositioned her sitting "…I _really_ don't want you two to worry about it. I know it's usually the ridiculous gender norm that the man provides for the household, but there's nothing more frustrating or stressful then being financially strapped or constantly having to worry about the next check coming in. So if there are no objections, I'll take care of the rent and no that doesn't include me buying you two clothes or food. You can worry about that _yourself._"

John immediately looked at Sherlock for confirmation, "And I'm guessing by the way you're not objecting in the slightest to her proposal that you're _perfectly okay_ with this?"

"Of course," he answered with his usual smile, giving Eleanor a curious but final glance before putting his attention back on his laptop that he just opened up on the overly crowded tabletop he was standing in front of.

"Okay, I guess that settles that…" he stated before looking over at Eleanor again, needing an absolute final confirmation from her "…are you _sure_?"

"Quite sure," she answered without hesitation, but not looking at him directly as she was still glancing over at Sherlock who was obviously preoccupied with his laptop.

"Alright."

It was strange. Although she was perfectly intent on paying for the rent, the idea originally came to her as a passing whimsical impulse. And by the time she spouted the idea to the boys was when she realized she was already agreeing on it, but subconsciously. Normally she would never give such a proposal. Not only was she suggesting to support one man without a job that she didn't know, but two men she didn't know. She had no idea how reliable they were or what kind of past they had or if they were the peeping tom kind for that matter, but this was one of those rare occasions where she was going on gut feeling alone. She received comfortable vibes both from Sherlock and from John. Mrs. Hudson seemed quite nice as well. The flat was charming with plenty of room more or less _except the kitchen table apparently_, and they all seemed like respectable chaps that could easily take care of themselves.

Besides, if there's one thing she didn't want to worry about was the rent being paid from three different shares. She'd rather just take it upon herself and just pay the damn thing entirely, not that it was financially a big deal. Technically she could just buy the place, but she wasn't _that stupid_, neither did she have _any_ idea how this was all going to play out.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John stated, catching Sherlock's attention as he spun towards their direction again with his hands in his pockets.

"Anything interesting?" he asked back in mild curiosity.

"Found your website, _The Science of Deduction_."

Sherlock smiled in a nearly proud expression, "What did you think?"

John could only respond with an _are you kidding me_ returned expression, causing Sherlock to stare at him quizzically.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes…" Sherlock started in retort with a nearly equal yet refined snarky deep tone "…and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

John stared at him blankly with the ever slightest uncomfortable shift as he asked, "How?"

The detective lightly grinned as he brought his attention back to his laptop again as Mrs. Hudson came into the room while reading a newspaper title, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four…" he corrected as he got closer to the nearby window and noticed something odd "…there's been a fourth. And there's something different this time," he added while noticing a police car parked out on the street behind the flat.

"A fourth?" Hudson questioned as footsteps suddenly could be heard coming up the stairs as Lestrade walked through the entrance.

"Where?" Sherlock immediately asked Lestrade.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something _different._"

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before asking, "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Obviously by the look on Sherlock's face, Eleanor could tell he wasn't happy with Lestrade's answer as he grimaced.

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock emphasized as he looked back at Lestrade.

From the way Sherlock carried himself so professionally and in such an intelligible manner, she was rather surprised to hear him admit that he needed an assistant. From the first impression she's gathered about him, she didn't think he seemed like a man that needed really anything in that manner. She was going to speak up and say how gladly she would join to help him, but she automatically shot the idea down. No man has ever needed her assistance in such a way so why would Sherlock? She wasn't the pessimistic type, but merely under the thought that if a man wanted her to join, he would simply say so. Why speak up only to be disappointed again? So she stayed quiet.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked again in a more persistent manner.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade answered in relief as he finally got Sherlock to join, leaving out the door but not without giving a quick glance around the room at the others, giving a nod to Eleanor. The room was quiet for the moment as the inspector's footsteps could be heard going down the stairs until he reached the front door and finally left the building. A big smile crossed Sherlock's face like a giddy little girl in a doll store as he suddenly leaped into the air happily while shouting, "Brilliant!" Catching Eleanor and John off guard by his reaction.

"Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He joyfully spurted about, spinning in a circle and then grabbing for his scarf and coat while heading to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper…" she corrected him politely as he interrupts back while grabbing a small leather pouch from the kitchen table "…something cold will do. John, Eleanor, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

And then with that said, he left through the connecting kitchen side door.

"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same…" she directed her conversation towards John and Eleanor "…but, you two seem more like the sitting-down type. I can tell…" an awkward pause hitting the air before she finished "…I'll make you two that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John shouted as he immediately then apologized, "Sorry, I'm _so sorry_ just sometimes this…" tapping his cane against his leg "…bloody thing—"

"—I understand dear, I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you," he stated politely upon picking up the newspaper and reading it.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper—"

"—I'll help you Mrs. Hudson," Eleanor interrupted as she felt it a bit awkward to expect the landlady to do anything for them.

"Thank you deary. Glad to see someone take initiative."

Upon looking at the newspaper, John read different articles stating about Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Before he can read on however, his silence was interrupted by Sherlock's sudden voice speaking into the room, "You're a doctor…" fiddling with his gloves as he further stated "…in fact you're an army doctor," as John stood up from the chair. Hearing Sherlock's voice immediately caught Eleanor's attention as she came back into the living room and stood near John.

"Yes," John answered, clearing his throat.

"Any good?" Sherlock further asked.

"_Very_ good."

Sherlock lightly nodded as he approached John with further statements in the form of assumption, "Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," the detective continued to state as he was but a few inches from John, standing much taller than him as John looked up.

"Of course, yes. Enough…for a lifetime. Far too much."

Sherlock was no stranger to the look on John's face. He's seen it before. It was a look not of wanting to put away the past, but a look of a man wanting to _continue revisiting it_ in hope of finding some action and adventure. So Sherlock was only left with one final question, "Wanna see some more?"

John answered fervently, "Oh _God_ yes."

Without another word said, the two bromanced in a waltz towards the door and left out of sight, leaving Eleanor feeling a bit ignored and in a disappointing sigh. It was one of many occasions she has been seemingly _overlooked_ as she sat upon the edge of the sofa chair's arm, staring down at the floor. However, this moment was quickly broken as Sherlock's presence once again disturbed the atmosphere as he popped his head around the door's entrance.

"Coming?"

She immediately lifted her head with surprise written all over her face, "You…want me to come along?"

Sherlock jerked his head slightly at her rather ridiculous question as he quipped back, "What do you mean do I want you to come along? If I recall it was you who muffled on about how you're bored most of the time."

She smiled, eagerly getting up from the chair and quickly walking to the door where Sherlock stood alongside John as he then spoke in a near whisper to her, but in a deep tone, "And what better way to break boredom then with a suicide case?"

She then laughed out loud full heartedly, finding his blunt statement to be a horrible yet morbidly delightful joke that hinted of an actual seriousness. Finally having the right company along, the trio quickly went down the stairs as John shouted, "Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"All three of you?" She presumed while standing near the bottom of the stairs.

"Afraid so, sorry about that," Eleanor apologized in a near delightful manner as Sherlock was just about to reach the front door before spinning around and walking back towards Hudson.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point in sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!"

He then went about grasping Mrs. Hudson by the arms and kissing her on the right check with an audible "muah!" before turning right back around and leaving.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she states, but with a smile.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"


	3. Typical Conversations

**Ch.3 Typical Conversations**

"Taxi!" Sherlock yelled as the car pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk.

Sherlock opened the door and allowed Eleanor to enter first as she lightly smiled and willingly did so, sliding in to the far left back seat as the detective joined to the right of her, leaving John to sit in the front seat that was adjacent to Sherlock's position, but made for easy conversation since John could just turn slightly to his right and talk.

It had been a long time since Eleanor was driven by someone else let alone been in a taxi. Normally she would just drive herself, but it was a nice breather and it had been a _long week_. Tilting her head back she stretched a bit while letting out an audible exhale.

"This is nice…" she stated with her eyes closed and arms folded "…been a while since I had company let alone went out to a crime scene."

Sherlock was rapidly texting on his phone with his eyes fixated on the screen, but the second Eleanor mentioned _crime scene_, he couldn't help but glance at her from the corner of his eyes before glancing right back at his phone.

"Crime scene?" John inquired, finding her comment a bit odd.

"Yes. Were you not aware we were going to one? I mean not only did Lestrade come waltzing through the door like he's been there before and spewed on about the recent suicide cases, he was _consulting_ Sherlock and asked him to come, so naturally that would mean we're going to a crime scene, right?" She directed the end of her question at Sherlock as he simply smiled while still planted to his phone.

"You…normally go to crime scenes?" John asked out of playful and nearly sarcastic curiosity.

"Yes," Eleanor answered back quite seriously, eyebrows raised in wander as to why what she said seemed so out of the norm for typical conversations until she realized it _was_ out of the norm.

Sherlock glanced at her again in silence before looking back at his phone while John turned his upper body a bit so he could make light eye contact with Eleanor.

"Well, I wouldn't say _normally_. On rarest of occasions I have once or twice assisted Inspector Lestrade with his cases. We aren't old friends or anything, but he's…been helping me with something…_personal._"

"So…are you a detective?" John inquired further.

"No…_but_ of the many professions I considered taking up, becoming a detective was one of them. I have a light fascination with solving things, but I'm more suited to psychology and art more than I would be as a detective."

"So what exactly have you done before since you stated in the flat that you don't have a job?" The doctor continued asking.

"I've worked here and there with basic dull jobs like retail, food or data entry, but nothing special. I studied psychology for a while, but dropped it for personal reasons even though technically I still studying it. I was trying to get a career going, but…I don't…need to anymore and I have zero interest on going back to study again."

The further she explained a bit about herself, the more her tone dropped to a hidden sadness as she finalized her statement, "I'd go into details, but really it's a bit _delicate_ and I'd rather not talk too in depth about it if that's okay with you."

"No, its fine. I understand," John nodded politely as he now turned his attention to the still ever silent Sherlock Holmes, starring at him while waiting for a response. When Sherlock realized he was being gazed upon both by Eleanor and by John he finally spoke up.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Crime scene, was it?" John asked.

"Yes. Next?" Sherlock answered accordingly.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John asked again.

"What do you think?" Sherlock responded again in light sarcasm. Eleanor didn't see a need to ask anything since obviously she already knew or at least presumed to know. Besides, John was pretty much asking what she was curious to know in the slightest and she preferred to listen than to talk anyway.

"I'd say…private detective—"

"—but?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"As Eleanor indicated earlier, I'm a _consulting detective_. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is _always_, they consult _me_."

John almost chuckled as he retorted back, "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock gave him _a look_ as an awkward silence hit the air. It was a bit insulting more or less, but nothing Sherlock wasn't used to hearing already as it seemed everyone loved questioning him no matter what came out of his mouth, even if it was brilliant. Everyone it would seem except…

"…John, seriously?" Eleanor interrupted as the doctor looked at her.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes as she further inputted in Sherlock's defense in a near chuckle, "Lestrade is one of the best detectives in Scotland Yard, you think he'd waste his time coming all the way to the flat and asking for Sherlock _specifically_ to come with him if he felt Sherlock was an amateur?"

The detective glanced yet again over at Eleanor as she caught the glance, swallowing a small knot in her throat as she spoke one last time, "I…sorry. I know you were about to speak and didn't mean to interrupt—"

"—no, it's fine," Sherlock assured her as she smiled. It was the first time anyone ever defended him before, or at least it had been such a _long time_ he had nearly forgotten what it was like to have someone not judge him in an ignorant manner. It was…refreshing.

The detective turned his gaze to the window while looking out at the city streets as he directed his conversation to John, "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ You looked surprised."

"Yes, how _did_ you know?"

"I didn't know, _I saw_. You're haircut, the way you hold yourself says military, but your conversation as you entered the room said _trained at Bart's_, so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Ira…_q_?"

Eleanor was speechless with her jaw quite lowered, so was John as he asked his next question, still not quite convinced as the expression on his face spoke _what the hell just happened?_

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, _of course_ you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Hm?"

"Your phone, it's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then."

Sherlock continued to flip John's phone around in his hands while explaining the rest of his brilliant analysis.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting adjacent to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving," John answered as the phone stated on the back of it _Harry Watson. From Clara. xxx._.

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, _Clara._ Who's _Clara?_"

With every second Sherlock spoke was every second closer to Eleanor just eating up everything about this man. It was like a logical analytical hypnotism that literally caused her to inadvertently hold her breath so that it wouldn't distract her from hearing every word he said and watching each movement and mannerism. One could easily assume he was an arrogant prick, but that's not what he actually is. He's simply an in depth rational thinker that speaks about things as they _are_, only the truth coming from his mouth whether it was good or bad, complimentary or meant as an insult. Arrogant pricks don't normally make eye contact, but as she watched closely she noticed how Sherlock constantly made eye contact with John easily as he did tossing his gaze throughout the car windows while fiddling with the phone. It was almost like watching a musical conductor, only instead of directing musical instruments, he was directing logical examinations and clues from everything around him in the form of extreme observation.

"Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left _him,_ he would have kept it. People do, _sentiment._ But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her._ He gave the phone to _you,_ that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking.

John was nearly awestruck as he asked further, "How…can…you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled and quipped back in a timely fashion, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" John asked yet again, only imaging what Sherlock would say next.

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock responded almost in a monotone fashion that hinted of him saying _enjoy eating your words._

Of course with such an analysis Sherlock merely awaited an insult as he was normally given upon opening his mouth in such a probing yet logical fashion, but instead of insult he received quite the opposite. Eleanor was so fascinated that she actually started clapping lightly with the biggest smile upon her face, "Oh…my god, ha, ha. Brilliant!" Sherlock looked at her almost puzzled. No one had _ever_ applauded him before let alone looked so happy about it. John nodded his head a few times while tossing his gaze to the front of the taxi as he agreed, "That…was _amazing_."

Sherlock then looked over in his direction almost baffled by the response he was getting, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was _quite_…extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock simply stated upon looking out his window, but John was quick to jump in and ask back, "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

Sherlock's response put a smile on every face in the car, even the driver's as Eleanor further chuckled while shaking her head, nearly not able to believe the incredible nature of the detective's deduction on just one single person. The amount of information he was able to gather was baffling, nearly to the point that she almost asked Sherlock to do one about her, but instead she decided to not bother him with it. She could only imagine what it was like storing all that kind of information into your head. Must drive the man crazy to the point that he has to state what he sees or he'll simply go mad from observation overload. It was a playful thought more or less, but being in his presence was simply enough enjoyment from a single car ride.

"Sherlock…" she stated his name sincerely, catching his attention as he looked over at her "…thank you _so much_ for inviting me along."

Her happiness was genuine to the point he could actually taste it. People normally didn't seek out his company let alone be enriched by his quick talk, but needless to say it put a smile on his face as he chuckled lightly in a deep tone.

"_Well_ considering the way your eyes lit up when I said I needed an assistant back at the flat, I didn't see any reason why you shouldn't come since you _clearly_ have an interest in these sorts of things."

She quickly turned her attention back to her window in hopes of hiding a quickly flaring blush on her face. It had been…so very long since she felt any scrap of giddiness or happiness that she had forgotten what it actually felt like. Nowadays she normally felt so dead inside that everything felt like a fantasy around her and not in a pleasant way, but upon meeting these two gentlemen _especially Sherlock_, it was like something inside that she thought was dead had suddenly popped alive. Maybe not by a significant amount, but definitely enough for her to _feel something again_. Whatever hunch she had upon waking from her dream earlier in the morning, she felt it was definitely fated to have met these two gentlemen just as her lease was going to be up.

"What about Eleanor?" John asked, breaking the silence as he directed another inquiry at Sherlock.

"Hm?" Sherlock and Eleanor responded simultaneously in equal reaction.

"If you were able to say all that about me, what about her?"

The two then glanced at her as she became a little flustered as she was once again put in the center of attention, something of which always made her a bit nervous.

"N-No uh…_please_ I don't want to bother you with that sort of thing. It must drive you crazy to see everything you do without it exploding in your head…_but_…" smiling with an intrigue "…if it _isn't_ to much of a bother, I'd be _honored_ if you did make a deduction about me."

Sherlock gave her a quizzical expression as he repeated, "Honored?"

She nodded sincerely, "Yes."

"Well that's a first," Sherlock replied in continuing perplexity that someone now actively _wanted_ him give off some incredible analysis about them in a way that normally pissed people off.

"Well then I'm glad to say I'm the first."

"The first, yes. Glad about it? Most likely not, although considering you didn't burst out in defensive insulting dribble when I pointed out your shoes were a men's line of shoe, you might get an amusement more or less so I'll start where I left off. Shoes. Men's, but not your father's considering the much smaller size unless your father is a much smaller man, though I doubt it since you're an average height for a woman and normally through genetics a height like that is only gained from the parents. Your hair is at its natural color, but it's been dyed at least twice before since the condition of it is still lightly damaged at the tips, which means you're soon going to have a hair appointment to cut off the remainder."

Once again Eleanor found herself slowly jaw dropping as Sherlock went about in his logical state of mannerisms, making eye contact with her but also tossing his gaze about the car in a way that indicated that his brain was running a thousand miles per second.

"You've had a string of lovers, but you're obviously single and, _shot in the dark_, never been married. You immediately corrected Mrs. Hudson to call you _Ms_ instead of _Mrs_, not to mention you so easily offered to share a bed with John even though it wasn't for the purpose of flirting as it was more of the purpose of _company_, something you stated before that you haven't had in the longest of times so I presume that includes not having someone share a bed with you in the longest of times."

A small chill went up Eleanor's spine as her delighted smile was fading, not because she felt insulted or disgusted with how easily Sherlock could openly read her, but simply that out of all the men she has ever loved or dealt with let alone close friends, _none of them_ could understand her so quickly at least not in this type of manner. Yes it was a logical analysis more than it was a psychological explanation, but nonetheless one could only dream of having a significant other that could see such detail without them having to explain their entire life story in hopes that someone would simply _understand_.

"Speaking of _longest of times_, something tragic has happened within the last three to four months tragic enough for you to avoid social interaction of any kind most likely because you don't _feel_ like having anyone around. You say you have no job, but you _have had them_ so recently after this tragic event you quit your job, not because you had to but because you didn't need the income from it anymore, and yet you can afford to pay for our flat on your own, more or less spelling out the fact that the money you _are_ getting is from a very large _inheritance_.

A very lighthearted gasp escaped Eleanor's mouth as she tossed her gaze to the backing of John's passenger seat, not making eye contact as she continued to listen without interruption, the expression on her face becoming a bit tenser.

"The shoes, coat, gloves, and everything else is barely worn, which means you've only had it for as long as you've had the inheritance along with the new car you parked by the flat that I saw while passing by in the taxi as you exited from it, it only being a year old model but in brand new condition, never previously owned. The inheritance itself could possibly be from a rich family, but considering your knowledge of military pension _and the dog tags around your neck_ under the sweater, your particular line of the Blackburn family is mostly military only leaving us with the conclusion that the inheritance was something your parents or _parent_ built over time. The inheritance probably consisted of a car or more than one car that you sold and traded in for a new one, a property that is at least two that you couldn't possibly live in due to one thing; _sentiment_. First you pay off your debts since you also stated how you're familiar with being financially strapped and more or less living paycheck to paycheck. You then rent the properties out so you can live off the income alone, giving you no reason to seek out a job or at least one that you can obtain that will keep you interested or in this case _distracted,_ having no interest to go back to school."

The psychologist let out a light exhale as she asked, "How do you know the money didn't come from drugs or something?"

Sherlock gave her _a look_, causing her to look back up at him as he further stated, "If you were a drug dealer, Lestrade wouldn't have suggested you as a flatmate especially since you said before that he's been helping you with something personal and last I checked drug dealers don't hang around Scotland Yard. Not to mention the fact they also don't normally get a thrill out of going to a crime scene that are normally _surrounded_ by the police since their time is usually spent _selling drugs_. That and everything about you says the _opposite_ of a drug dealer especially since the few women who _are_ drug dealers are obsessed with jewelry, but the only piece of jewelry you're wearing are dog tags; military and belong to your father _or_ possibly a brother."

"And how do you know the tags aren't mine?"

"Dull jobs; retail, food, and data entry. Psychology and art, none of which hint or indicate military service although upon closer study one could easily be thrown off. You have a similar stance as John, but not necessarily a trained one at least not a military trained one. You've had physical training in martial arts. You also carry a gun that can be seen from the indentation from the inside of your coat not to mention it weighs more heavily on the right side then the left, making you right handed, but no doubt you know how to use it since you were trained with that as well, doubtfully by Lestrade, definitely by your father."

"You keep saying my father. Why?"

"Siblings, assuming you have one, can have close relationships, but there is always a rivalry of some kind, and since the father is usually the head of the household and obsessed with protecting his family, he would make sure that his daughter or more likely _only daughter_ can defend herself. So, trained by father to use gun, forced or at least encouraged by him for you to get physical training."

"You're right, the dog tags were my father's."

Very small tears began to form in Eleanor's eyes upon having so many truths about her being spoken in such a rapid pace. She's an emotional personality so naturally to have small details of herself that she tries to ignore on a day to day basis, dug up so quickly, caused her heart to feel a familiar numb _ache._ John did a double take as he could see the sudden expression on her face, her eyes still directed at the back of his seat although on occasion she would throw a glance at Sherlock to show she was indeed listening, but otherwise she kept staring at the back of the seat.

"You speak of him in the past tense, confirming he's dead, but you were closest to him since the only thing you're wearing that is worn and belongs to anyone other than yourself, are the dog tags—"

"—um, Sherlock," John tried to softly interrupt him even though Eleanor wasn't saying anything in objection.

"Unlikely to be your mothers and yet you aren't wearing anything that seems to belong to her at least not that can be visibly seen. Ah, divorce…your parent's were divorced so you chose to be with your father and—"

"—s-stop…stop!" She quickly interrupted a bit more audibly than John as she rapidly threw a hand over and grasped gently upon Sherlock's thigh, not in a means to make him uncomfortable or anything of the like, but simply it was her initial knee jerk reaction to grasp upon something that hopefully would give her comfort. It was a subconscious move more than it was a conscious one as it caught not just Sherlock and John by surprise, but herself as she realized where her hand was, a tear nearly falling down her face as she let out a deep gasp.

"I…" looking down and quickly removing her hand away as her stare was tossed to the window, tears finally falling out on their own in a quiet manner "…I'm sorry. I just…I…I needed a second to breathe."

It was quiet now as the two kept their attention on her. She finally looked back at Sherlock, revealing a moist stream on her cheek that shined from the light outside. Obviously his words touched upon a delicate subject, opening an old wound…or two, possibly more.

"Sherlock…u-um…" she stammered, trying to gather her thoughts as she closed her eyes, wiped her tears and then opened them again while looking at him "…thank you."

Thank you? Considering he blurted a bit more about her than he did about John, he was prepared for her to rip him a new one, but a thank you? His eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion.

"Thank you for being…" she tried to find the right word "…honest. I know this sort of thing is probably what you normally do, but for me its…" looking away as she gathered her thoughts "…it means a lot more to me that someone is honest…that a _man_ is honest especially since they're…" closing her eyes as her teeth clenched from old wounds "…they're normally not…with…with me," she finished her words in a near whisper. But then she finally looked back into Sherlock's eyes, finding that they provided a surprising calm for her as she stated again, "So, thank you."

There were a thousand things that Sherlock could say, but he just simply smiled lightly and stated back in a surprisingly warm tone, "You're welcome."

His calm in turn put a calm in her as she continued to star into that gaze of his before finally stating with a smile, "That was _bloody brilliant_ though."

The trio then chuckled together as the cabby took them to their destination.


	4. Pink

**Ch.4 Pink**

The three finally arrived at Lauriston Gardens as Sherlock, Eleanor, and John exited the car. Eleanor walked on Sherlock's right side while John walked on the detective's left.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked aloud as John and Eleanor glanced at each other, wondering who should speak first, but of course being a gentleman John replied, "Ladies first."

Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated as she sighed and finally spoke, "Well, you pretty much hit the nail on the head, the multiple heads. The money is from an inheritance and yes, also from renting out properties, only two. Sold my father's, my stepmother's and my older car and got a new one. So yes, my parent's were divorced and my father married a woman here. How the hell you speculated there was a divorce is beyond me, though most likely it was an intuitive guess on your part and actually got it right. The tragic event was the death of my father and stepmother from a car crash, but its not the only tragic event I've been dealing with. I have one sibling…_had_ to be precise. Older brother was in the military and so was my father and so was his father before him. What about you John? Did he get everything right?"

Out of the mouthful that Eleanor spoke, she immediately threw the attention to John, indicating that _clearly_ she didn't want to be asked any further questions or open the opportunity to do so, neither did she want to discuss anything further at least in relation to herself. John nor Sherlock invaded the boundary of the given hint so John merely continued on from where Eleanor left off.

"Well, let's see. Harry and me don't get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock responded in a pleasant tone, impressed with himself.

"And Harry's short for _Harriet_."

Sherlock literally stopped in his tracks, causing John and Eleanor to stop just a few feet ahead of him as they looked back upon him responding in the midst of a pause, "Harry's your sister."

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked, continuing onward.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in irritation, gritting his teeth as he repeated, _"Sister!"_ as Eleanor and him started walking along with John again. Eleanor could only smile to herself, finding it a bit cute that Sherlock was indeed wrong _about something_.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked again, but Sherlock merely ignored the question as he further stated, "There's always _something_".

Approaching the police cars, Donovan welcomed Sherlock with her usual greeting for him, "Hello, freak."

Eleanor never really did get along with Donovan, but this was just icing on the cake to hear her blatantly insult Sherlock in such a horribly rude manner, a manner she has been familiar with before at least in her younger years.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he answered in a monotone response.

"Why?" she asked as he gave her a look that said _how bloody stupid can you be?_

"I was invited."

"_Why?_" she asked again with emphasis that hinted of an attempt to annoy Sherlock.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" she retorted in equal sarcasm.

"Always, Sally," he refuted back in identical distain as he merely ducked under the police tape to the other side while taking in a deepened _sniff_. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I d-don't, uh, who's this?" She asked in a stammer as John approached the tape while Eleanor ducked under it quietly to Sherlock's side.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson and, as I'm sure you already are acquainted with, Eleanor Blackburn." He then turned to John and introduced the Sergeant, "Doctor Watson; Sergeant Sally Donovan. _Old friend_," he finished off with dripping sarcasm.

Donovan almost laughed as she asked in further insult, "A colleague?" How do _you_ get a colleague?" She then turned her attention to John and Eleanor, "What, did he follow you two home?"

Having quite enough of Donovan's flapping Eleanor got slightly in front of Sherlock as she lifted the tape and responded, "Well this is all very _uninteresting and all_, but I believe that time is being rather wasted on empty words, so shall we Doctor Watson?"

John shifted uncomfortably as he asked softly while making eye contact with Sherlock, "Would it be better if I just waited and—"

"—no," Sherlock interrupted as he waited for John to come under the tape that Eleanor was still holding. Without further hesitation John joined along as they approached the front area to the house where the crime scene was at.

"Freak's here, bringing him in," Donovan radioed as she leads the three over.

"Must be that time of the month for her. She's practically _bleeding_ an attitude," Eleanor muttered very softly, almost putting a smile on Sherlock's face as he studied the surrounding area that was littered with other policemen and illuminated with flashing spinning lights from the parked police cars.

"Ah, Anderson. _Here we are again_," Sherlock spoke out upon Anderson approaching him from inside the hours, covered in a blue protective coverall while removing his latex gloves, his nose stuck up in a distasteful condescending expression.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

With the man standing just a foot in front of him, Sherlock breathed in another deep whiff before responding, "Quite clear…" pausing for a moment "…and is your wife away for long?"

Immediately irritated with Sherlock's habitual blunt statements that feel like they came out of nowhere, Anderson responded, "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

Eleanor chuckled, causing Anderson to give her a quick second glare before he brought back his attention to Sherlock, "My deodorant?"

"It's for men," the detective answered with a prude delightful grin on his face.

"Well of course it's for men. _I'm_ wearing it," Anderson retorted in a huffed manner.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock quipped back as Anderson spun around and looked at Sally in shock.

John tilted his head to the side a bit with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as Eleanor had to hold every fiber in her body from bursting out in laughter as she snickered silently to herself.

Sherlock took in a third whiff as he playfully commented, "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply—"

"—I'm not implying anything…" he starts while walking past Anderson and up to Donovan, further stating "…I'm sure Sally came around for a nice little chat…" and then walking past her as he finished off with "…and just _happened_ to stay over."

Eleanor soon followed with John behind her as she kept the biggest grin on her face, putting off Anderson _and Donovan_. By the time Eleanor had reached Sherlock, the detective spun around and gave a final remark, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the _state of her knees_."

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horrific disgust as Sherlock smiled back smugly along with Eleanor's grin as she waited for the detective and John to join her inside.

"I think we're all going to get along _just fine_," Eleanor stated cheerfully to Sherlock as the detective smiled and replied in question, "If I'm not mistaken I do believe you enjoyed that."

The psychologist chuckled in response, "Oh _very much_. I do believe my days of boredom are over."

Following Sherlock past a few room entrances, they finally made it over to Lestrade who seemed to be inside a living room of sorts, but were filled with lab equipment for gathering and studying evidence as well as a brightly lit construction light that could easily blind you upon entering the room.

Lestrade was putting on one of the blue coveralls as Sherlock tells John, "You need to wear one of these."

"Hi, Lestrade," Eleanor greeted him as he greeted back, "Eleanor, no surprise why you're here, but it's not really necessary."

"I know, but I came anyway," she smiled as she began to strip her coat so she could more easily put on one of the protective gears to keep from contaminating evidence.

"Who's this?" Lestrade further asked when looking at John.

"He's with me," Sherlock answered in the midst of taking off his gloves.

"But who _is_ he?" Lestrade insisted as Sherlock came around to the back of him, causing the inspector to turn in his direction as they were face to face.

"I _said_ he's with me," Sherlock further insisted on not explaining in detail who John was.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" John asked Sherlock, noticing that the detective wasn't going to bother with the coveralls as he was perfectly fine with his coat and scarf. Sherlock just merely stared at him, John shaking his head a bit with the thought _never mind, was a silly question._

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked to Lestrade.

"Upstairs," he answered simply.

From a third person point of view, the staircase was disorienting in a dingy darkened grey tone type of design that neither spoke of elegance nor of comfort. If it did ever bare any elegance, it was many years ago and long since forgotten and abandoned. It was quite a bit of a ways up as well as Lestrade began to lead them up the stair case.

"I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," Sherlock stated as he glanced up the steps that were illuminated by various thin vertically standing construction lamps.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her," Lestrade further explained.

Upon finally making it to the top floor, the four of them entered into the room that was dead silent with a hint of a cold body. Lestrade went in first, then Sherlock as he finished putting on latex gloves, Eleanor and then John. The second Sherlock and Eleanor stepped foot into the room they immediately began their own debunking analysis of what they saw, which wasn't much. John however, upon looking at the body, found it strangely a familiar setting. It wasn't the first time he had seen a dead body, but it wasn't exactly his idea of an outing. The woman was laying flat upon her face, legs parallel to each other and hands spread out in an even fashion.

"Shut up," Sherlock suddenly commanded, as Lestrade gave him the funniest of looks.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Eleanor simply smiled as she took some steps forward to the right of the body while Sherlock took two pausing steps to the left, noticing something peculiar upon the floor that was scratched out to form some kind of word by the woman's finger nails. This sparked the detective's immediate silent analysis of what he saw.

_Left handed. RACHE- German (n.) revenge._

_No._

_R...A…C…H…E—_

"—Rachel."

Sherlock immediately looked over at Eleanor who nearly in a whisper spoke out what she saw upon the floor, finding her observation to happen seconds before he had come to that conclusion that it was a name and not some German word.

"Sorry, was an immediate thought. I won't interrupt again," she stated openly to Sherlock as she didn't want to interrupt his thought process while she further did her own examination.

"It's…fine," Sherlock stated back as he continued to look the woman over upon kneeling down and dragging his fingers along the riveted texture of her pink coat. He then lifted his hand and studied the moisture upon his glove's finger tips.

_Wet._

Reaching into the woman's coat pockets he finds a white umbrella, but discovers something odd about it as he touches it firmly.

_Dry._

Eleanor watched him carefully, trying to learn his way of deduction. She couldn't move at the pace he was going since he made it seem like he knew _exactly where to look_, however judging upon the areas he analyzed, she could more or less make a few connecting jumps here and there to what he was thinking in his head, his body movement alone speaking loud and clear. She didn't dare interrupt again even though Sherlock said it was fine. She waited until he was done before sharing her thoughts although she figured it was probably pointless to.

Looking back down again Sherlock ran his fingers under the collar of the woman's coat.

_Wet_.

Quickly bringing out his portable pocket magnifying glass, he probed it over the woman's jewelry that mainly consisted of gold colored earrings, gold bracelet, gold necklace chain and gold wedding rings. He first looked over the bracelet.

_Clean._

Then the earrings.

_Clean._

And the necklace.

_Clean._

Then lastly the rings.

_Dirty. Hmm._

Blinking a few times Sherlock deduced in multiple observations that sent up a red flag; _unhappily married 10+ years._ In a quick fashion, the detective then slid the wedding ring off as he looked upon the inside of it.

_Clean._

Flipping it around with closer study of the outside, _dirty._ Placing the ring where it once belonged he deduced, _regularly removed._ With a smile upon his face he came upon his final conclusion.

_Serial adulterer._

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked as he noticed Sherlock removing his gloves, which was usually an indication that he was done.

"Not much," the detective answered in a nonchalant manner, standing to his feet as Eleanor also stood, sticking her hands in her pockets.

"She's German," Anderson interjected as he came to the door's entrance and leaned upon the frame with his arms folded, catching the attention of the entire room, Eleanor rolling her eyes.

"_Rache_, it's German for _revenge_. She could be trying to tell us somethi—"

"—yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock interrupted while walking up to the door in the midst of Anderson blurting in ignorance and then closing the door while fiddling with his cell phone, options springing up on an app.

_UK Weather. Maps. Local. Warnings. Next 24 hrs. 7 day forecast._

_UK Weather. Maps._

"So she's German?" Lestrade continued with Anderson's remark as to which Eleanor quipped in strong emphasis, "_No_, she's not _German_. I've never seen a German wear that much pink. Definitely out of town."

"Clever girl…" Sherlock complimented since for once someone was actually following along or at least remotely, "…she intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff…" placing the phone back in his pocket, "…so far, so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" John asked rhetorically as he couldn't follow with even what Eleanor was stating in her observations despite the fact they were in the form of light joking sarcasm.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock immediately ignoring the question and looked at John, "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man,."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade insisted, not comfortable with the idea of a random supposed doctor getting in on the scene. It was enough to have Sherlock and Eleanor prodding about.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock answered flatly.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here."

"Yes, because you _need me_."

The detective had a point Lestrade couldn't argue with as he agreed regrettably, "Yes I do…" looking down at the floor "…God help me."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock grabbed his attention again.

John looked over at Lestrade to seek permission, still not at all comfortable with barging in on a crime scene like Eleanor and Sherlock did without hesitation.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," the inspector further instructed.

"What about me? Is it alright if I join them?" Eleanor asked with a grin to which Lestrade gave her a look and replied back in question, "Do you even need to ask? You're going to join then regardless." She chuckled lightly and stated, "Ah, you're finally learning. Don't worry you won't regret this."

"I already am," Lestrade commented in final reply as he instructed to the rest of the team standing outside the door, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Finally having the privacy they needed, the trio approached the body; John to the right of the woman as he struggled to kneel down with his bad leg, Sherlock to the left as Eleanor joined beside him.

"Well?" Sherlock asked John.

"What am I doing here?" the doctor asked back.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock whispered back.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"I've got that covered remember?" Eleanor interrupted with a grin.

"Yes well, I haven't really made up my mind on that yet," John commented honestly.

"What? But you agreed on it back at the flat," Eleanor reminded in surprise to his statement. "Besides, working a job to pay that sort of thing is _boring_. Trust me, you don't want to be burdened with that, I should know."

"Yeah, and this is more fun." Sherlock agreed.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," the doctor spoke frankly, finding the situation not at all amusing.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock quipped back in the lightest of sarcasm, causing Eleanor to chuckle again as John looked at her.

"Sorry, hm, hm, I'm not laughing at the fact a woman is dead, just that listening to you two conversing is like watching a reality show on the telly."

Before another word can be spoken, Lestrade walks back in with his arms crossed and waits for them to finish their business. John drags his right leg under so that he can bend over and get a more personal look at the victim, putting his face close to hers as he begins to sniff, noticing the rather familiar scent of bile reeking from her mouth. He then lifts her right hand and studies it.

"Yeah…" bringing his leg back up to a bent kneeling position so he can rest upon it "…asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs," John concluded.

"Possibly drugs?" Eleanor asked rhetorically, finding John's analysis to be ignoring the obvious facts he read in the papers as to which Sherlock quickly points out, "You know what it was. You've read the papers."

John then realized, "What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth?"

"Sherlock, _two minutes_, I said, I need anything you've got. You too Eleanor. I know you didn't come along just for the ride."

Eleanor nearly blanked, a bit nervous to actually answer him even though she's never been hesitant on giving an analysis before. However, genuinely the truth is she wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say considering how easily he deduced her and John in the car not to mention the fact that Lestrade pointed her in the direction of seeking out Sherlock from the beginning. Aside from the performance in the car, this was a perfect opportunity for Eleanor to hear with her own ears and see with her own eyes of what Sherlock could do. So, naturally she wasn't going to interfere with this convenient demonstration.

"Uhh…I'm sure Sherlock's got it down," she insisted as the detective was quick to stand and begin his explanation, "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly _alarming_ shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night."

Eleanor and John soon joined them in a stance as Sherlock walked around in further observation, "It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"_Suitcase?_" Lestrade questioned since obviously there wasn't a suitcase.

"Suitcase, yes, she's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" Lestrade burst out in disbelieving objection of the detective's analysis as to which Sherlock interjected immediately while pointing down at the woman's hand, "…_wedding ring,_ ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring; state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, that means it's _regularly removed._ The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. _Simple._"

Needless to say, Eleanor did not regret letting Sherlock speak first, although that was her intention to begin with. She was really only going to say something if Sherlock actually wanted her to, so the only thing that could come from her mouth _and John's_ in a simultaneous verbal reaction was, "That's brilliant." Sherlock rapidly looked at John and then at Eleanor as she got the idea from the detective staring at her that she shouldn't have opened her mouth, apologizing to him, "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked, taking Sherlock's attention again as the detective replied in rhetorical question, "It's obvious isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," John noted aloud, Eleanor keeping quiet as Sherlock nearly insulted, but baffled that once again a situation presents itself and he was the only one seeing what he saw as he glanced at John and Lestrade, but ironically not at Eleanor, "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Her coat is damp," the psychologist interrupted as Sherlock looked at her, furrowing his eyebrows a bit before encouraging, "And?"

She hesitated at first, but then answered, "Well…when I watched you look over her body without saying anything, your gloves were wet when you dragged your fingers along her coat. So, obviously she's been in rainy weather, but it must have been…recent considering the condition of her coat still being freshly moist? It hasn't been raining here so it must have been somewhere else. You said Cardiff, so I'm guessing that's the location?"

She paused for a moment, looking for verification that what she was saying was true as Sherlock gave her another look and insisted, "Keep going although it'd be nice if you went a bit faster."

Eleanor blanked for a second as she replied in faster speech, "Uh, okay. Well, hmm. Aside from the coat being damp you pulled out her umbrella but it was perfectly dry and unused, _very odd._ For whatever reason you checked the under part of her collar and also found that to be wet and…that's all I've been able to gather."

Sherlock nearly had a look of disappointment on his face as he let out a light breath through his nostrils. It wasn't that she stated anything that was wrong since she was the only one apparently to remotely grasp what he was seeing, but it was irritating to still see that yet once again, someone couldn't make the extra leap of thought.

"I got it wrong?" She inquired while arching her eyebrows considering the look on Sherlock's face that was rather logical, but she couldn't quiet tell what he was really thinking.

"No, but there's _nothing odd_ about her umbrella not being used. The collar is damp because she turned it up against the wind. The umbrella is dry because she wasn't dealing with just wind, it was a _strong wind_, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

Pulling out his phone, he flashes it to Lestrade and John to show the webpage he had accessed for weather information for the southern part of Britain.

"Eleanor, say it with me…"and in simultaneous recitation the two stated _"…Cardiff."_

She smiled and shook her head as John was baffled and stated aloud again, "That's fantastic!"

Sherlock turned to him and spoke a bit more quietly in question, "D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll shut up," John quieted down his admiration.

"No, it's…fine," Sherlock replied back, being once again flattered with the amount of compliments he kept receiving both from Eleanor and from John. It was _very refreshing_ to say the least.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked again.

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock asked back while spinning in a circle upon looking at all corners of the room, "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing _Rachel_?" the inspector asked yet again in surprise.

Sherlock immediately turned his head towards Lestrade as they were face to face, "No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of _course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is; why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

Eleanor was going to answer, but Lestrade interjected first, "How do you know she had a suitcase?"

The detective motioned his hand to the body as he pointed out, "Back of the right leg; tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious; could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He then knelt down and examined the back of left leg more closely, "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There was no case," Lestrade answered.

This very fact immediately caught Sherlock's attention as he slowly looked back up at Lestrade and insisted in repetition, "Say that again," as to which Lestrade answered a second time, "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Standing up and bursting past Lestrade, Sherlock yelled out in question to the rest of the house, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?! Was there a suitcase in this house?!"As he hurried down the first part of the stairs. Eleanor was quick to go past Lestrade as well as she stopped at the railing and looked down at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade insisted as he came out of the room and joined beside Eleanor.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them," Sherlock further shouted as he quickly scrambled down another flight of the stairs.

"Right, yeah, thanks. _And?!_"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings, _serial killings_."

Stating the words _serial killings_ caused Sherlock to clap his hands together once upon bringing them to his face with delight at the thought, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestarde further asked as he, John, and Eleanor continued to look down from above as Sherlock kept circling closer to the bottom of the stairs. Eleanor couldn't help but smile to see Sherlock so giddy with such a dreadful situation. She could literally feel the energy emanate from him as it mingled with her own and for the first time she was able to forget her troubles, just for a moment.

"Her case! Come on, _where is her case?_ Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case!"

"Unless the case is with the killer?" Eleanor suggested on a thought hitting her.

"Yes, yes! Proper thinking Eleanor!" He shouted back in delight as he spoke more quietly to himself, "So the killer must have driven her here; _forgot the case was in the car._"

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," John suggesting a different theory that sounded more logical to him.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" he stops mid sentence as he comes to a brilliant realization "…oh…" he murmurs in a whisper as his pupils shrink upon his eyes opening wider while clapping his hands together once again "…_Oh!_"

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade further asked with light anticipation, but not nearly as anticipated as Eleanor was to hear the detective's brilliant thoughts.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade shouted from the very stop of the steps.

"Oh, we're _done_ waiting. Look at her, really _look!_. Houston, we _have a mistake_. Get on to Cardiff; find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock continued to shout as he finally made it to the bottom of the stairs in a dash and disappears from their perspective view.

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!"

Sherlock dashes back into view as he shouts back passionately, _"PINK!"_ and then runs out the door as to which Eleanor shakes her head with a smile, but then sighs and comments, "I hate pink."


	5. The Ice Man

**[UPDATE 8/5/13]** There was contradicting information about my Sherlock OC, Eleanor and her profile origin on deviantart in regards to her brother's killer. The killer and her mother don't get involved until sometime after Eleanor starts flatmating with John and Sherlock. Sorry for the confusion. I have made a small fix in Ch.5 and 7 of the fanfic "Color Theory", but otherwise everything else is fine. There is only one sentence in both chapters where she mentions about the killer in regards to her brother "and mother", but I've removed the "mother" part and left it simply about her brother. Again sorry about that.

**Ch.5 The Ice Man**

Within seconds, Sherlock was gone from the scene and out to do…whatever it was he was going to do. Eleanor would have easily gone with him, but she didn't want to leave John behind and wanted to make sure he would be alright. With a man such as Sherlock, she had the feeling that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and didn't want to hinder anything.

"And there he goes. Come on John. I'm a bit familiar with the area so it shouldn't be a problem for me to get us a taxi home."

_Home_. There was a strange thought and a word she hadn't used in the longest of times, but for whatever reason with only being in the flat for a matter of an hour at most, already she was considering it _home_. Strange indeed.

"He's probably waiting for us to meet him at the bottom."

"Him? _No_. A man in a delightful frenzy like that? He's not going to stick around. He's probably going to try to find the suitcase."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because it's a missing part of the crime scene. He's a detective _more or less_. He's going to find it. I bet you 50 pounds he will. Just wait, you'll see."

Going down the stairs first was a natural protective habit of Eleanor. She does it with her friends and family, especially those walking around with a cane like John. This was to ensure that if John tripped for any reason that she would be first to catch his fall. Just a simple protective instinct she managed to create a habit out of, a habit that has been created not out of the most pleasant of circumstances. It was also to make sure pretentious inconsiderate assholes didn't bump into him upon rushing on the stairs, which by the way a few of them _were doing_ as Eleanor blurted here and there "Hey, watch yourself!"

"Eleanor, if you don't mind me asking—"

"—go ahead," she encouraged him in light interruption.

"Why do you _really_ want to pay the rent on your own?" He asked

"Does it _really_ matter?" Eleanor asked back, stepping down a few more steps.

"It does to _me_," John insisted in a slight stronger tone as it caused Eleanor to stop in her tracks, pausing for a moment as John stopped a step behind her. She then turned a bit and looked up at him.

"And _why_ does it matter to you? Oh _let me guess_, because you're the man and I'm the woman and it's the man's job to—"

"—no…no that's not why I'm asking."

Eleanor cocked her right eyebrow in a doubtful manner as she replied, "Really?"

John nodded, "Really."

With a rather surprised look on her face that she tossed to the side, Eleanor commented, "Well that's a first. And sorry, I don't mean to imply that you're…_sexist_…but its just…I've lost count of how many times people…_men_ try to…um…never mind. It doesn't matter. The thing is I _really do_ just want to handle the rent…" turning back towards the downward stairs as she continued "….yes I know it's quite a bit of money, but it's not that big of a deal. It's a pain in the ass trying to worry about two other shares coming in, especially considering the way Sherlock carries himself about, it'll probably be tooth and nail trying to get a share from him. Which by the way I'm not trying to imply that you're just as…as…um—"

"—irresponsible?"

"Yes, no! I mean. I don't…I'm not trying to talk badly of Sherlock. I never want to talk badly of him, just…oh bloody hell I can't get my words out."

"I understand what you're saying."

"You do?" She stopped again and turned to face him as he nodded.

Eleanor sighed slightly. She wasn't sure what to say as she wasn't too entirely sure herself of why she wanted to take the rent on her own.

"I tell you what, if you really do feel that uncomfortable about it, then I won't force it on you. Last thing I want to do is make a flatmate uncomfortable. So if you want to pitch in for rent, then go head. I won't stop you."

"Half."

"Half? You sure? Might require you to get a job. That's rather dull. Would take time away from these adventures I'm sure we're going to have plenty more of."

"I think I can manage," John insisted with a small smile at her.

She chuckled a bit before holding her left hand out, keeping in mind that his right was preoccupied with his cane, "Alright. Half it is." John then shook her hand as the two came to an agreement.

Upon making it to the bottom of the stairs, John and Eleanor managed out of their coveralls and placed their coats back on. Finally making it outside, the two started to approach the police tape where Donovan was still standing as John looked around for Sherlock.

"He's gone," Donovan stated upon noticing John looking around for him.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" John asked again.

"Didn't look like it," Donovan answered nonchalantly.

"Why are you asking? I told you he was gone," Eleanor stated to him in repetition.

"Because he's smart enough to look for a second opinion," Donovan interjected.

Eleanor just merely shook her head while making a childish pig like scrunched face at Donovan, ignoring the statement and just keeping her words to herself as she immediately held up the tape for John.

"Come on, taxi time. By the way, where are we again?" Asking John as he looked at her in surprise, speaking her words back to her, "I thought you said you were a bit familiar with the area?"

"I thought I was, but from the looks of it…" as she looked around rather confused "…I am…completely lost. I thought this was another place, but it's obviously not. So…taxi? Where can we get one?" She pointed her question at Donovan who was regrettably going to answer her.

"Try the main road."

"Thanks," she answered, still holding up the tape as John went under it.

"You're not his friends," Donovan remarked, catching both Eleanor and John's attention as they looked at her.

"He doesn't _have_ friends. So who _are_ you?" she pointed her question at John.

"I'm…I'm nobody. I just met him," he hesitantly answered.

"Okay, bit of advice to both of you then; stay away from that guy."

"Not that I give a _damn_ about your ignoramus opinion, but why the hell would you say that about Sherlock?" Eleanor asked, rather annoyed.

"I've known him longer than you have."

"I find that _very doubtful_," Eleanor quipped back in a light raise in her tone.

"Do you even know _why_ he's here Eleanor? He's not paid or anything." Donovan bit back with a condescending attitude.

"Of course he's not paid, I gathered that bit of information on my own thank you."

"He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off."

"Of course he likes it! He's _passionate about it_, not that you would understand anything about passion. The weirder the crime the more interesting it becomes. Why do you think he came here in the first place? It's a _very interesting case._"

"Yeah? Well one day it's not going to be enough for him. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" John asked, a bit torn between Eleanor's logic and Donovan's…if you could call it logic.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

"_No_, geniuses get bored when something doesn't match their intellect. Once again you astound me with the level of ignorance you represent. A psychopath doesn't know what the bloody hell they're doing. They're _incapable_ of it. Sherlock knows _exactly_ what he's doing. He deduced more on that woman on the floor than Lestrade's entire team. I probably could have made half his deductions given a lot more time to do so, but Sherlock did it all within _seconds_. That's not a psychopath you imbecile, that's a _genius at work_."

"Donovan!" Lestrade yelled from afar, interrupting the slowly growing abrupt debate between Eleanor and the Sergeant.

"Coming!" Donovan yelled back as she started to approach the inspector before turning back lightly and stating aloud, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

The comments from both ends caused John to pause in thought, not really sure where he sat on the matter as Eleanor asked him more silently, "Tell me you didn't listen to what she was saying."

"I'm not really sure _what_ you two were saying. And to be honest she sort of has a point."

"A point? She's your typical village _idiot_. She doesn't even know Sherlock," Eleanor emphasized while holding her hand out in Donovan's direction in a strong gesture.

"And you do?"

Eleanor sighed before answering back while walking alongside him down the street, "Of course I don't _know him personally_, I've never met him."

"That's not true."

"What?"

"When we first met him in the lab you both openly stated how you both thought of each other holding a familiarity like you've seen each other before, but neither of you expanded on that thought."

"He…ugh…I don't…I don…look he seems a bit familiar to me and I don't know why and that's the honest truth, but its also besides the point. Look, do you or do you not agree that humans have a natural tendency to shun something they don't understand?"

"I agree," he nodded.

"I'm not a full on psychologist, but I studied psychology before I took it and I continued to do so even after I dropped out of it. I dropped out for personal reasons. I may not know every psychological diagnosis out there, but I understand humans. Unless a person can understand the nature of humans, than nothing else matters in the study of psychology. People like Donovan, can never understand and _will never understand_ the way Sherlock see's things. It scares them because they _don't understand_."

"That still doesn't make her points completely illegitimate."

"No, it doesn't. From the little I've seen of Sherlock in action, I can easily tell he's a proper genius. The way he deduces is astounding. He could have very easily made it out as if he was fresh on the crime scene when in reality he probably set the whole thing up. It's a very logical assumption."

"So you agree with Donovan?"

"No…n-no! For the love of God…" she stopped walking and gently tugged John on his jacket sleeve to get him to stop and face her as he did so and she continued "…why did you agree to flatmating with Sherlock?"

John shifted about with his cane as he let out a small sigh through his nostrils, "You two seemed decent enough."

"Wrong. That's not why."

"Then tell me why."

"You already know why. John…you're a soldier. You've been trained in this sort of thing already. You've entered into situations, more than once, that forced you to make a split second decision based upon a scrap of information. Right?"

John looked to the ground for a second, placing his left hand in his pocket before looking back at Eleanor as he answered, "Yes."

"Instinct…John. Instinct…is what tells you it's _okay_ to flatmate with Sherlock that it's _okay_ to trust him. The trust only goes to a point, but the point is you _trust him_. Hunches. Instinct. Inner voice. _Gut_…_feeling_. This is the core of human beings, but most ignore it or don't know what to do with it, either because they think it's impractical, don't have the talent to listen to it, or just don't believe in our extrasensory abilities. You have it. You have to, you're a soldier. I live off of it, it is my _life guide_ to the things around me. It's what helps makes sense of the things I don't quite understand even if I can't logically explain it in the way that Sherlock can. Even Sherlock goes off of gut feelings. He admitted this inadvertently when he stated that he didn't expect to get _everything right_ when making his deductions about us, that only proves that even for him, not everything he may see or logically analyze isn't based off rationale, but a _gut feeling_. I trust him John. I may not logically be able to explain why and maybe to people like Donovan what we're doing is crazy, but I know a good vibe when I feel one. What do your vibes tell you?"

Eleanor left her question in a rhetorical state as she began to walk ahead of John, hands in her pockets and a satisfactory smile on her face. It had been a while since she got on a psychological discussion with someone, even if they weren't responding back in equal agreement, but nonetheless John listened and nonetheless _it made absolute sense_ and all the more reason why he was quickly beginning to like her as a flatmate. She seemed like a _very_ sensible woman and an easily _misunderstood one_.

"Are you hungry?" he suddenly asked her, causing her to stop as he caught up with her and they began to walk again.

"Well…yes actually. I am a bit hungry. Why?"

"I was wondering if—"

_—Ring. Ring. Ring._

Passing by a phone booth, the two were suddenly interrupted by the idle phone ringing, but for no one standing there to answer it.

"Hm. That's kind of odd," Eleanor commented as John looked at his watch and shook his head. "What?" She asked upon looking at her phone, "Oh. Quite late. Definitely should get home. I don't know about you, but I want to make sure I'm back just in case Sherlock needs anything."

After making it quite a bit of the way down the street until they hit the main road where it was busier and filled with people, John spotted a taxi as he started to yell at it, but it simply drove off as he shook his head again in irritation.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Standing outside Chicken Cottage fast food restaurant, John and Eleanor stared at the phone that was mounted on the wall through the window. It was ringing, but again no one there to answer it.

"Okay that's too odd," the psychologist stated, but before she had a chance to burst inside to answer it, a random waiter walked over to it, reaches and it stops before he has a chance to pick it up.

"Probably someone placing a phone order," John commented in a more believable theory that Eleanor immediately shot down, "Yes, but I don't believe in _coincidences_. That's the second time we've walked by a phone and it rang anonymo—hey come back!" She shouted lightly upon noticing that John had walked off from her.

She quickly caught up to him as they started to pass another phone booth and sure enough—

_—Ring. Ring. Ring._

The two stared at it as Eleanor quipped, "Third time's the charm?" As she then picked the phone up without hesitation, "Hello."

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John couldn't quite hear the phone conversation, but he noticed how Eleanor suddenly looked up in a specific direction. Upon looking up with her he realized she was looking at a street camera.

"Yes, I see it," Eleanor answered.

"Watch," the voice commanded as the camera turned all the way to its left.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

Eleanor sighed and answered accordingly, "Yes."

Once again the camera turned itself all the way around.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

She and John look again as the third camera moved in the same fashion as the others.

"What's going on?" John asked as Eleanor immediately shook her head while holding up a hand to shush him.

"Camera tricks; security access from any point, I get it. You're obviously not who I thought you were, but nonetheless a rather boring displaying of persuasion. What do you want?" She asked nonchalantly, but secretly inside a bit nervous. She had no idea who she was dealing with, but their voice didn't sound too horribly threatening let alone mentioned anything about her brother for that matter so it helped her to keep calm.

"Get into the car, Miss Eleanor Blackburn and please do invite Doctor Watson to join you."

Simultaneously at that point a black car pulled up by the curbside right in front of the phone booth as John and Eleanor stared at it.

"I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

A man started to get out of the car as a click could be heard on the other end of the phone, causing it to go dead with a long ring tone. Eleanor hung up as she looked to John and whispered, "Well I guess we won't be going home any time soon, shall we?"

"You seem rather calm about this," he remarked.

"I'm really not, but thanks for noticing," Eleanor remarked back as they got out from the phone booth and got in the car, John in the back with a strange woman it seemed while Eleanor sat in the front.

A minute or so passes before John greets the rather attractive woman beside him, "Hello."

The woman smiles brightly back with a "Hi" before bringing her attention back to her phone that she was rapidly texting on.

"What's your name, then?" He asks further.

"Uhhh….Anthea."

Eleanor rolled her eyes silently, knowing that John was obviously flirting and the woman was obviously _not interested_ upon hesitating to answer her name, only indicating that she simply made one up.

"Is that your real name?"

The woman looked at him again with a raised eyebrow, "No" and then brought her eyes back to her phone.

Giving a brief glance about his surroundings the doctor stated, "I'm John."

"Yes, I know," the woman answered.

John looked at her briefly before looking ahead upon asking, "Any point in asking where we're going?"

The woman then glanced briefly at him upon answering, "None a'tall….John."

John nods and states, "Okay."

Sometime _much later_ and finally arriving at their destination, the car pulled into some gigantic low ceiling factory type of industrial area, a man standing in the distance whom was leaning upon his umbrella with his right hand and standing upon his left leg with the right crossed over. The car turned its lights off as Eleanor and John got out of the car as the doctor whispered to her in question, "Know who he is?"

"No. You?"

"No."

"Well, guess we're stuck in the same boat then."

Eleanor stuck close to John's right side as they approached the man, finding that two chairs were waiting for them to sit down in. The man who was waiting for them seemed rather relaxed. He looked more like a business man than anything else considering the all grey slacks, jacket and vest, adorned with a buttoned up white shirt and tie. It was like he just came out of the stock markets. Lifting his umbrella and pointing it at the chairs the man finally spoke, "Have a seat, John…Miss Blackburn."

Continuing to walk towards the man John remarked, "You know, I've got a phone…" glancing around at the gigantic warehouse "…I mean, very clever and all that, but er…you could just phone me. _On my phone._"

Stubbornly, John simply walked _past_ the chairs, surprising Eleanor a bit as she paused for a moment, but then decided to do the same as she joined John and stood to the left side of him, but a step or two back. The doctor now stood but a feet or two in front of the strange man as he replied back, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place…" smiling for the most part, but his tone changing a bit more to a sterner drop "…the leg must be hurting you…" looking to Eleanor as well "…you must have had a long night. _Sit down_."

John immediately interrupted, "I don't want to sit down."

The man looked at John curiously before tossing his gaze back at Eleanor to hear her reply as she almost hesitated, "Um…what he said."

Eleanor wasn't quite sure what to do with this situation as the strange umbrella man seemed relaxed as he equally was unthreatening, but she trusted John more with what to do with this situation then she trusted herself, mainly going with the idea that John is a trained soldier and knows how to handle these kinds of strange situations more than she ever would. Out of anything however, she was mostly curious to see how he _would_ handle this so she simply followed his lead without question.

"You don't seem very afraid," the man turned his attention back to John.

"You don't seem very frightening," John answered in a straight manner, causing the man to chuckle as he further questioned, "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for _stupidity,_ don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes? And yes I'm asking the both of you."

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" thinking for a moment only to realize the surprisingly short time he's actually known the detective "…yesterday."

The man looked at Eleanor as she quickly responded, "Same for me. We both met him at the same time. No connection."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you two moved in with him and now you're all solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who _are_ you?" John asked as Eleanor quickly interjected, "Don't bother asking him he's not going to tell us or he would have introduced himself by now."

The man glanced at the psychologist curiously again before bringing his attention back to John since he was the closest in proximity to himself, "Let's just say I'm an _interested party_."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends," John remarked further in the lightest of sarcasm.

"You've met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," the man stated upon lifting his umbrella lightly and clicking the end of it upon the ground as he shifted it about.

"And what's that?" John asked, not in the least bit amused.

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In _his_ mind certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_ enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God _you're_ above all that," John remarked again in heavier sarcasm.

The man frowned at John as Eleanor lightly smiled to herself. Then a sudden beep could be heard from John's phone as he picked it up from his pocket and looked at the message he just received.

_[Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. —SH]_

"I hope I'm not _distracting you_," the man remarked.

"Not distracting me at all," John replied nonchalantly as he put his phone away.

"Do you both plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong but…I think that's none of your business."

"I agree," Eleanor quickly stated in a near whisper.

The man's eyes fell upon both of them before he insisted at John, "It _could_ be."

"It _really_ couldn't," John pushed back verbally.

"If you do move into…um…" pulling out some kind of notebook from his inside pocket and then opens it for consultation "…two hundred and twenty one _B_ Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay both of you or _either of you_ a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"I've got that covered so there's no need," Eleanor insisted.

The man closed the book upon responding, "Yes, I'm fully aware of the rented properties you live off of as well as rather large sums of money you keep a portion of in eight different banks from the inheritance you received quite a few months ago. I could also just as easily take those away from you."

Eleanor was a bit surprised as she equally felt probed and pushed aside by this man who seemingly muttered off a bit of knowledge only a select few had, not to mention he gave her a light threat. Who the hell was this man? John gave a glance at her briefly before turning his attention back to the gentleman, a bit irritated with his response to Eleanor.

"So you're threatening me?" she asked lightly.

"No, just simply stating what I'm capable of doing if _given reason to_."

"Why would you give such an offer?" John interrupted.

"Because neither of you are wealthy, even if one income comes from an inheritance."

"In exchange for what?" John continued to ask further.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…_uncomfortable with._ Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" Eleanor asked.

"I worry about him. _Constantly_," the man stated with a hint of sincerity that was neither moving nor exaggerated.

"That's nice of you," John responded insincerely.

"But I would prefer for _various reasons_ that my concern go _unmentioned._ We have what you might call a…_difficult relationship._"

Bingo. Relationship was a key word that made Eleanor jump with a hunch as she asked rhetorically, "You're related to him aren't you?" The man simply stared at her, but before he could speak again, John's phone beeped for a second time as he pulled it out and read the message.

_[If inconvenient, come anyway. Bring Eleanor. —SH]_

"No," John responded simply upon putting his phone away again. The man then looked over at Eleanor and waited for her response. John in turn turned his head to his left side and awaited Eleanor's answer.

"You could offer me the world…and I would still say _no._"

The man took in a breath before further trying to persuade, "But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother," John quickly jumped in as the man began to laugh in retort, "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just _not interested._"

The man pauses for a moment upon looking into John's gaze and then briefly at Eleanor as she simply shook her head again without response before he stated aloud, "Trust issues, it says here," pulling out the notebook again that he had pulled out earlier.

John became a bit disconcerted upon looking at the notebook as he asked, "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

John couldn't help but hear the echo of Eleanor's conversation about gut feeling and trust from earlier in his head as he tried to answer back in question, "Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?" John cut him off.

The man raised his head in a light upward tilt with a cocked eyebrow, gazing into John's stare as he answers sternly, "You tell me."

John titled his head in the opposite direction, but in the same fashion as he simply just turned around and started to walk away.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stopped dead in his tracks, shaking his head and barring his teeth a bit as he turned abruptly right back around.

"My wot?"

"Show me."

"Leave him alone," Eleanor warned in a deep tone.

"This doesn't concern you," the man assured back without glancing at her.

"This most certainly does!" She yelled, her voice echoing in the warehouse with a surprising abruptness as it caught even John's attention, the doctor looking back at her, seeing a fierceness erupt from inside her and could be seen in her eyes. The man looked over at her as she stated further, "John is my flat mate and I will most certainly _not_ stand idly by as you poke and probe around at his psyche. I know _exactly_ what you're doing and its _really_ rude and _really unnecessary_. I—"

"—Eleanor. It's okay…" John interrupted her with a calm yet sincere expression on his face like he was saying thank you without the words "…it's fine." He then turned back to the man and lifted up his left hand, refusing to move towards him for the convenience factor. If the man wanted to see John's hand, he'd have to move on his own.

The man walked over casually, reaching out to gently hold John's hand in his, causing John to abruptly pull it away as he warned, "_Don't_." The man simply gave him a look, raising his eyebrow with a tilt of the head that nearly spoke _I'm not going to ask again._ John matched the gaze as he finally, but reluctantly allowed the man to study his hand. Eleanor stood close to John, only a step behind him now as she watched in a prowling like manner of the umbrella man's movements. She was ready to grab her gun at any given moment if the man gave her reason to and she would _not hesitate_ to shoot.

Within seconds he spoke, "Remarkable."

"What is?" John asked quickly in return.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars…" turning his back as he paced a few steps "…when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield…" turning back to face John "…you've seen it already, haven't you?"

Ignoring the question, John directed his inquiry back to his hand since the man was so interested in studying it, "What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand."

John nodded inadvertently.

"Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

Tears nearly began to form upon him being opened like a book for unsympathetic casual analysis. He was a simple man with matters that were _hardly simple_ and he wasn't particularly fond of being examined by some strange man that seemed to spout facts about him like it was a trivial affair for him to do so.

"Who the _hell_ are you?" John asked coarsely.

He paused for a moment, not necessarily trying to be rude to the man since he was simply being logical, but he still couldn't ignore old wounds that festered at the very mention of them. Eleanor could hear the small ache in his voice as she felt out for him emotionally, whispering his name to herself in a gentle sympathetic fashion, _"John."_

"How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John gave a quick second glance downward towards his hand before bringing his gaze back up and staring off in front of himself without making actual direct eye contact.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson...you miss it."

John finally looked up at the man as he leaned in closer and nearly whispered, "Welcome back."

Finally concluding his business, the man started to walk away while revolving his umbrella a few times as if playfully satisfied, more or less with the message he has given to John and Eleanor. The doctor's phone beeped for a third time upon receiving another text message.

"Time to choose a side for the two of you," the man stated with his last words.

John didn't make a move as Eleanor took a step towards his front and made eye contact that was sincere, but she didn't say a word. Her eyes spoke enough.

"I'm fine," he spoke softly to her, figuring she wanted to know if he was alright. She nodded and responded understandingly, "Okay."

The woman from the car finally approached them as she stated, "I'm to take you both home."

Taking out his phone, John finally read the last message, _[Could be dangerous. —SH]_

"Dangerous? Is he alright?" Eleanor suddenly asked, peeking over at the doctor's phone. The doctor looked at Eleanor as if a tad bit perturbed that she was looking to begin with.

"Uh…sorry, I normally don't read people's personal texts I assure you, but I figured it was Sherlock. I'm guessing he's asking you to come back?"

"No. He's asking _us_ to come back."

And then a smile creased across Eleanor's face, "Us? Really?" She smiled bigger, her eyes suddenly lit up, "Well, let's not disappoint him."

Putting his phone away again, John then looked at his hand only to find it was a steady as a beating drum, causing him to smile sardonically.

"Address?" the nameless woman from the car asked.

"Er, Baker Street. 221 B Baker Street, but I need to stop off somewhere first," John answered, walking along with Eleanor back to the car.


	6. A Three Patch Problem

**Ch.6 A Three Patch Problem**

Before hitting the flat, John had the driver take him to his own place, having Eleanor wait inside the car as he goes to grab his pistol from his drawer. Quickly checking the magazine, he clicked it back into the butt of the gun before tucking it into the back of his pant's waistband and joining up with Eleanor back in the car.

After what seemed like hours, the two finally arrived outside of 221 B Baker Street. John turned to the woman beside him who still seemed rather preoccupied with her phone as he requested, "Listen, your boss; any chance you could not tell him this is where we went?"

"Sure," she stated in light sarcasm.

"You've told him already, haven't you?"

Her expression laughed for her as she answered, "Yeah."

The doctor nodded in acquiescence and turns to get out of the car, but just before opening the door he thought he'd try his luck one last time, quite enamored with the woman.

"Hey, um…do you ever get any free time?"

Chuckling in response, "Oh, yeah. _Lots_."

John waited for what he was hoping would be an invitation to go do something with him, obviously not getting the hint as the woman continued typing away on her phone.

"Bye," she answered almost annoyed as he finally got the hint, Eleanor calling out to him from outside the car, "Come on John! Sherlock is waiting!"

"Alright, alright."

Finally joining up with Eleanor, she couldn't help but remark in light jesting, "You're persistent arent'chu?"

The doctor merely looked at her, not really amused as she held up her hands and remarked again, "Kidding, kidding."

_-The Flat-_

Upon the couch was stretched out our detective; jacket and scarf put away leaving him only in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just above the elbow, his eyes shut as he pressed the palm of his right hand upon the middle of his left forearm with another nicotine patch he had just applied. He waited as within seconds the nicotine coursed through his blood, sending a riveting effect of _calm and tranquility_, allowing him to process his thoughts more precisely. The living room was quiet, all but the sound of a satisfying exhale from Sherlock's mouth as his eyes opened wide, pupils rapidly dilating from the illumination of the lighting in the room that hit them directly. Within another few seconds of absorbing the patch, Eleanor and John walked through the main door as the doctor immediately asked, "What are you doing?"

"He's thinking," Eleanor commented with a smirk on her face as she went to the end of the couch where Sherlock's feet were stretched out at as she sat upon the edge of the cushion next to them, crossing her legs and arms while leaning on them lightly. Sherlock didn't seem to mind in the least.

"Nicotine patch..." removing his hand to reveal he had placed three upon his forearm "…helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain wor…_k_."

"It's good news for breathing," John sputtered like a doctor naturally would.

"Oh, breathing. Breathing's _boring_," Sherlock retorted.

"I-Is that _three patches?"_

Lifting his arms lightly into the air, he then bent them towards himself as his hands gently pressed together in a praying position just an inch below his chin as he replied with his eyes closed, "It's a three patch problem."

Eleanor simply watched him in silence as he didn't utter another word, smiling lightly as she found it oddly peaceful to observe his calmness.

"Well?" John asked, waiting for Sherlock to respond, but he laid there silently without a word. "You asked me to come, including Eleanor. I'm assuming it's important?"

Again the detective stayed silent until suddenly his eyes snapped open and looked lightly over in John's direction as he spouted, "Oh, yes of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John wondered, a bit confused and hoping that wasn't the only reason Sherlock wanted them to come over.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website," Sherlock further explained his reasons that Eleanor thought was pretty reasonable considering as she didn't jump in to comment or anything, just simply sound with listening.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," John remarked.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

Eleanor began to chuckle lightly as John became a bit perturbed at Sherlock and a fraction at Eleanor for laughing, "We were on the other side of London."

"There was no hurry," Sherlock quickly interjected before John brought his attention to Eleanor, "And I don't know what you find so amusing."

"What? Heh, heh, I'm not laughing because he dragged us all the way over here. I'm laughing because he's as _lazy as I am,_ no offense Sherlock," she directed the end of her answer at the detective playfully as he answered simply, "None taken."

Sherlock glanced at her for a moment, almost smirking as she looked over at him with her phone in her hand, "Here just use mine so you stop torturing John."

"But torture is more recreational, don't you agree?"

She nearly blushed upon making eye contact with him as she placed her blue metallic phone into his hand.

"I don't use it that much anyway, and no you don't have my permission to make another deduction based on my phone."

Ironic she stated that because that was _exactly what he was thinking_ upon taking note of the condition the phone was in.

"You love blue don't you?" he stated nonchalantly in rhetorical fashion while ignoring her request, "Not to mention you've dropped your phone plenty of times."

"Oh, quiet," she jested back in another chuckle. "And yes I do very much love the color blue, hence my car as I'm sure you noticed."

"_And_ the sweater. It's a bit baggy for your figure, but charming no doubt."

She jaw dropped lightly, not at all expecting him to say _anything_ about her figure, but nonetheless it was Sherlock's way of giving a compliment that could almost be taken as a light insult. With the phone now held between his hands, Sherlock returned his arms to the praying position and closed his eyes once more, John making a few paces around the room.

"So what's this about, the case?" John asked.

"Her case," Sherlock responded in a soft manner.

"Her case?" John questioned again.

Finally opening his eyes Sherlock responded back, "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"So I was right," Eleanor muttered to herself in a gleeful manner.

"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," Sherlock also muttered lightly to himself before speaking aloud, "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text," he commanded lightly upon reaching out Eleanor's phone to John.

The doctor smiled for a split second in irritation, nearly shaking his head in disbelief as he replied, "You brought me here…to send a text."

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

"It's Eleanor's phone, why not just hand it to her?" John insisted in calm irritation.

"Because she's sitting comfortably while keeping my legs warm and you're _conveniently standing._"

Eleanor propped up her right arm as her hand covered her mouth, trying to not reveal an oncoming blush not to mention a rather big smile on her face as she nearly wanted to laugh out again. It was strange though. It has been so long since she had chuckled _this much_ in someone else's company. Sherlock didn't seem to mind however, John might have though so she tried her best to be respectful to both ends of the party.

Finally taking Eleanor's phone from Sherlock's hand in an irritable fashion as the detective returned his hands to the praying position, John looked around a bit peeved. Approaching the nearby window he looked outside, observing to see if the car Mycroft had him and Eleanor ride in was still possibly there watching on the other side of the flat's parking lot. Sherlock _obviously noticed_ as he asked, "What's wrong?"

"We just met a friend of yours."

Sherlock, rather confused inquired, "A friend?"

"An enemy apparently," Eleanor added as Sherlock glanced at her before relaxing from the thought and tossing his gaze off into a random area of the room in a calm playful response, "Oh. Which one?"

_"Which one?"_ Eleanor a bit surprised for some reason as she further asked, "How many do you have?"

"Enough," Sherlock commented as John further explained, "Your _arch enemy_ according to him. Do people have arch enemies?"

Sherlock looked at him a bit suspiciously as he asked in a logical assumption, "Did he offer you both money to spy on me?"

Both Eleanor and John replied simultaneously, "Yes."

Sherlock glanced at them both as he further asked, "Did you take it?" as the two responded simultaneously again, "No—" "—of course not."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Eleanor smiled again, glad to see that Sherlock wasn't going to drill them about more details and simply blew it off as a trivial matter, trusting the both of them by their word. It was nice to be trusted back equally as she trusted Sherlock…_for now anyway_.

"Who is he?" John asked.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now…" the detective made his voice more audible again "…on my desk, _the number_."

Not wanting to fight Sherlock on this further as it was pointless to do so, the doctor walked over to the desk and picked up the piece of paper, going over the details of the written information.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was...hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number."

The doctor started typing, but Sherlock verbally interrupted him as he asked, "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you _done it_?"

"Ye—hang on!"

Sherlock waited for a moment before instructing, "These words exactly; _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out._"

The doctor began to type away on the phone, but glanced briefly at Sherlock a bit concerned about what he just said as the detective continued in specific wording that needed to be typed.

"22 Northumberland Street. Please come."

"You blacked out?" John finally asked in the midst of typing.

"What? No. No!"

Abruptly sitting up and getting up from the couch, the detective stepped upon the coffee table and then over to the kitchen where a rather strange pink suitcase sat idly upon a chair.

"Type and send it. Quickly."

Coming out from the kitchen, Eleanor's eyes lit up upon seeing the case as she stated aloud, "You found it!" As she then went over to them and stood beside John while intently watching Sherlock with the suitcase.

"John you owe me 50 pounds," she stated aloud.

"Why does he owe you 50 pounds?" Sherlock asked quickly while moving about with the suitcase.

"I made a bet that you would find the suitcase—"

"—a bet we didn't shake hands on," John sarcastically interrupted while texting.

"I was kidding," Eleanor added as Sherlock interrupted upon looking over John's shoulder while grabbing a chair from the other end of the table and pulling it to his front while placing the suitcase on it to look inside, "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?" John asked again.

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Sherlock instructed with urgency.

While John finished off the remainder of the text Sherlock unzipped the bag and opened it to show the contents inside. Eleanor knelt down on the other side of the chair as she surveyed the insides noticing that there are various shades of pink including a novel by Paul Bunch titled "Come to Bed Eyes".

"Oh dear God, what is it with women and pink? It's like her life is littered with Pepto-Bismol. Staring at her case practically makes my stomach feel better," Eleanor commented as began to dig around.

Sherlock glanced at her momentarily, finding her comment amusing, but most of all the fact that she didn't doubt him _in the least_ for having the case to begin with. She didn't question him or thought he was the murderer. She simply went along with it, trusting him entirely. It was nice to not have someone second guess him at every turn let alone assume he was the murderer.

John on the other hand upon looking over at their direction, staggered back a bit as he realized what Sherlock had in his possession.

"That's…that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock responded, observing while Eleanor continued to carefully look through the inside contents, trying to find some type of electronic personal item or notebook of some kind.

John stayed silent in struck awe as Sherlock sighed lightly before responding in near sarcasm, "Oh, perhaps I should mention _I didn't kill her_."

"I never said you did," John answered back, although he couldn't help but admit to himself that the thought did cross his mind at least for a split second.

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

Eleanor looked up for a moment as she glanced at the two before John asked, "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock glanced up at John, a smile creasing his face as he replied simply, "Now and then, yes," before pushing up on both arms of the chair while repositioning himself so that he was sitting atop the back cushion while his feet were dug into the bottom. His arms were bent up so that he could rest his mouth and chin upon his clasped hands, the fingers intertwined between each other as he continued to observe Eleanor shifting through the bag's contents before unzipping every pocket, nook and cranny imaginable.

"Okay…" John responded and reluctantly went along with it as he limped over to the other sofa chair and sat into it "…how did you get this?"

"By looking," Sherlock responded instantly.

"Where?" John asked further.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" John questioned again with his eyebrows furrowed in near disbelief.

"Why wouldn't it be pink? Didn't you notice what she was wearing? Not to mention what's inside here. Who needs to see a doctor with a stomach ache when I can just stare at the contents of her bag," Eleanor quipped upon unzipping the last pocket she could on the suitcase, still not finding what she was looking for.

"Why didn't _I_ think of that?" John questioned out loud in a rhetorical fashion as to which Sherlock insulted lightly, "Because you're an idiot."

The detective had now caught both Eleanor and John's attention as they seemed a bit surprised as that was the first time Sherlock openly insulted John.

"No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is…well except Eleanor here who seems to be the only one that's getting it."

Eleanor paused before responding back, "Getting what?"

Sherlock nearly sighed as he quipped back, "Do you normally dig your hands hastily around a dead woman's bag? _Of course you don't._ Obviously you're looking for something particular, something that is _clearly missing_ from her bag."

"Her…phone?" she answered back in a half rhetorical manner, equally sure and unsure at the same time, hoping that's what Sherlock was referring to.

"Yes. YES! Oh, finally! Someone with an imagination."

Eleanor smiled from Sherlock's delight as John simply questioned the assumption, "Maybe she left it at home."

Pushing down upon the chair's arms again, Sherlock lowered himself back down so that he was sitting on the bottom cushion. Eleanor too readjusted her position since she was tired of kneeling and simply sat upon the floor Indian style.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

"Er…why did I just send that text?" John asked, a thought hitting him that he hoped wasn't something he did that he thought he just did.

"Well the question is, where is her phone _now?_" Sherlock asked back, leaving the question open in the air as he kept eye contact with John.

"She could have lost it," the doctor further theorized with a more _believable_ assumption.

"Yes, or?"

John paused for a moment of thought before responding, "The murderer. You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she…left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry, wh—"

"—oh, _fantastic_…" Eleanor interrupted, shaking her head while looking off in some direction in front of her "…you just had John send a text from my phone to a _murderer…_ lowering her tone to a near whisper as she murmured to herself "…now two murderers have my cell phone number."

Although it was in whispered hush, Sherlock managed to make out her words, mostly from the movement of her lips as he looked at her with a double take. She caught the glance, realizing that wasn't something she should have openly murmured with Sherlock sitting nearby. His eyebrows furrowed curiously at her, but he wasn't going to question anything since he was much busier with the situation at hand.

"Wait…what did you just say?" John asked, double taking on what he thought he heard, but wasn't sure.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

As if on cue, John was interrupted in mid question as Eleanor's phone suddenly began to ring, the three of them looking over in the direction of it. The doctor picked up the phone for a moment while looking at it before he and Eleanor looked up at Sherlock.

"Few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from _her_. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..." Sherlock pauses as the phone continues to ring "…would _panic_." Upon his last spoken word, the detective flips the top of the suitcase to a close, standing up abruptly while grabbing his jacket and slipping it on.  
"Have you talked to the police?" John asked, finally glancing up as Eleanor stood to her feet, grabbing her phone from the doctor's hand and sticking it in her pocket.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to us?" John asked further as Sherlock answered back after finishing buttoning up his jacket, "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

Eleanor chuckled while joining Sherlock's side, John looking off in the direction of the skull where it used to sit upon the mantle of the chimney before he spun his head back to Sherlock in question, "So we're basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're both doing fine," Sherlock stated while putting on his wool coat, waiting for John to get up and join him and Eleanor.

"Well?"

"Well what?" John asked back, almost annoyed.

"Well, you could just there and _watch telly_," Sherlock interjected with light sarcasm.

"What, you want me to come with you two?"

"Why not?" Eleanor suggested while shrugging her shoulders as the detective further stated, "I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…" leaving his statement open without an ending while tying his scarf around his neck "…problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

Eleanor rolled her eyes as Sherlock joined her in distaste at the mere mention of Donovan's name as he responded back, "_What about her?_"

"She said…you get off on this. You enjoy it."

_"John,"_ Eleanor spoke his name in a scolding like tone, a bit disappointed that he would repeat such a crude statement, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered in the least as he quipped back with a smirk, "And I said _dangerous_ and here you are."

Upon finishing getting dressed for the occasion, Sherlock quickly turns away and leaves, Eleanor standing for a moment as she smirked at the doctor, "Come on. It'll be fun."

Letting out a light sigh John finally got up while cursing lightly, "Damn it!" as he finally joined up with Eleanor so they could all leave together.


	7. A Side Dish of Danger

**Ch.7 A Side Dish of Danger**

It wasn't long before the trio hit the streets of London that was enlivened with night owls, parading about in a typical monotonous fashion. Little did they know they were on the hunting grounds of a killer, a perfect setting for an outing with Sherlock Holmes.

"Where are we going?" John asked as he did his best to keep up with Sherlock and Eleanor's pace, his cane making it just a fraction more difficult.

"Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

"Nooo, I think he's _brilliant enough_. I love the brilliant ones. They're always desperate to _get caught,_" Sherlock replied with a smirk across his face

"Why?" John further asked, not quite understanding what Sherlock was getting at.

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an _audience_."

"How else would he get his entertainment? It'd be tedious to constantly kill, but to never get caught and never be understood," Eleanor commented.

"Exactly…" Sherlock agreed as he spun around in a circle "…this is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

A silence in the moment arises before Sherlock threw up his hands on both sides of his head with an abrupt thought, "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Dunno. Who?" John asked.

With his hands planted together and his finger tips touching his lips Sherlock answered with a shrug, "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

Upon entering into a nearby restaurant across the street, the waiter at the front entrance turns towards the three, nodding at Sherlock and directing his hand at the table beside them that has a _reserved_ tag on it.

"Thank you Billy," Sherlock greeted.

The table itself was a little small, but enough for three as it was the main corner table behind the front paneled window to the restaurant. It was surrounded by an L-shaped olive green cushioned bench with light fixtures hanging above it. Being a gentleman, John of course let Eleanor sit first as she slid herself all the way to the center where the L-shape part of the bench was connected, leaving her planted between John and Sherlock. As the detective was slipping off his coat, Eleanor immediately held out her hand, offering to hold his things.

"Thank you…" he stated, but keeping his eyes fixated on the window while looking out on the street as he instructed to both of them "…22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

Taking off his scarf as well, he handed it to Eleanor, the psychologist nearly blushed again as he was sitting rather close to her, his knee gently pressed against hers as she quickly turned her attention to the street side. Removing her gloves and placing them on her lap she was able to feel the soft textures of Sherlock's coat and scarf, both of which emanated the heat from his body that was previously on him. It added extra warmth to her lap as she found it lightly soothing. John soon joined her other side as he stripped off his jacket and commented in light jesting, "He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed _four people,_" Sherlock retorted as his eyes darted about the various moving objects outside.

"Okay," John remarked with an undetectable _whatever you say_ type of tone.

Eleanor took in a deep breath and exhaled audibly while pulling out her phone and checking it for messages aside from the one that was sent to the recent killer in the news. Sherlock couldn't help but glance downward at the motion, but couldn't quite see her phone's screen since she had taken it out of her right pocket and held it at low level just beside her right thigh so that only she could see. Within seconds she placed it back in her pocket.

_"Now two murderers have my cell phone number."_

The previously muttered words Eleanor had spoken to herself back at the flat crossed Sherlock's mind as it was becoming drastically clearer as to what the psychologist was currently dealing with in her life. Quite a few deductions sped through his head as he started to make connections from previous deductions about Eleanor; her statement about running away with the type of shoes she wears and her mention of Lestrade helping her with a personal matter. It was obvious at this point that Eleanor was in trouble of some kind, but not necessarily the type of trouble that was occupying her life too heavily. It must be something that has been lurking around for some time now, but has gone _unresolved._

The moment however was interrupted as the owner of the restaurant walked over to their table with a cheerful and gratuitous smile on his face upon seeing the detective.

"Sherlock," he spoke the man's name with a pleasant tone as he shook the detective's hand.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want…" the owner further stated upon handing menus to the three "…for you _and your date_," he finished off his wording upon handing the last menu to Eleanor with the last bit of his statement.

Eleanor lightly jaw dropped at the assumption that was dropped on her as Sherlock quickly asked her, "Do you want to eat?"

His eye contact further distracted her as she caught his glance, stammering a little "…I…uh…" glancing back at the owner while taking the menu and then back at Sherlock, but not really able to finish her answer as the owner further distracted her, taking back her glance as he continued stating, "…this man got me off a murder charge."

"Really?" Eleanor inquired rhetorically.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced, keeping his eyes fixated back on the street side as the owner shook hands with Eleanor and John.

"Hello," the doctor greeted.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking," Sherlock explained.

"He cleared my name," the owner stated happily.

"I cleared it _a bit_. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing, but for this man…" glancing at John and Eleanor who both felt a bit awkward that they just shook hands with a previous house breaker "…I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Sherlock interjected in correction.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," the owner lastly stated upon winking at Eleanor.

"Um, that's really not…" Angelo walking away before she had a chance to really say anything "…necessary."

Eleanor shook her head lightly to herself as she glanced over at Sherlock, causing him to glance at her for a moment as they stared at each other for a few seconds before he suggested, "You both might as well eat. We might have a long wait."

Angelo soon came back with a small shot sized glass cup with a lit candle in the middle of it and placed it upon the table with a thumbs up before turning right back around and walking away.

The doctor shot a glance at Eleanor with an eyebrow cocked as she immediately caught it for a moment, shrugging without any words spoken before John looked back down at his menu and began to survey the eatery of choice.

Eleanor couldn't help but inwardly chuckle to herself. For the drastically short time she and John had been with Sherlock, she noticed he had no problem correcting anything that was erroneous in nature, sometimes in the form of an insult, but she couldn't help but find it so _odd_ that Sherlock didn't immediately correct Angelo upon the owner assuming that she was Sherlock's date. Of all the things to not correct someone on, _why that?_ What was even _more_ interesting is that Sherlock didn't seem to be inquisitive upon the fact that _she didn't correct the owner either_.

It's not like she hasn't been assumed to be someone's date before. After all she is an attractive woman and more or less it has been an occasional assumption made about her. Normally in such cases she had no problem correcting someone on such a matter, but in this particular case she found herself stammering in thought and not necessarily because she didn't get a chance to say anything, but more of because she didn't know what to think of it at all. Did she honestly not _mind_ if someone assumed she was Sherlock's date? She barely knew the man let alone John. Why did the owner not assume that she was John's date for that matter?

What caused her to mentally and verbally stammer on the whole thing was that she didn't at all get the sense or hint that Sherlock was flirting in any manner let alone was she flirting in any shape or form back. No doubt being in both his and John's presence was lighting up long since dead positive emotions, but none of which were in a romantic reason or gesture. She was just simply enjoying the company and finding the ongoing adventure with Sherlock to be the best enjoyment she's had since…well…since _ever_. If anything, the only real thing she did actively notice was that she was blushing…_ a lot_ at the simplest of gestures from John, but _definitely from Sherlock._ Now was a perfect example; Sherlock of course looking intently through the window panes but his right arm was resting on the top part of the bench where Eleanor had her back planted against as she also continued to stare out the window, his hand rested against her left shoulder blade in a light unintended manner.

John of course noticed her mannerisms from time to time not to mention the subtle shift in her expression that he could see more easily from his angle, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

It wasn't long before John had ordered something and was munching on his food while Eleanor occasionally sipped on a glass of water, her arms now folded as she stared at the table, various thoughts going through her head that consisted of her brother. She couldn't help it as she also couldn't help but be distracted from the musk she could smell from both John and Sherlock. Scent is one of the more palpable senses a human owns as it helped her to stay in a calm while waiting for Sherlock to make a move of some kind in regards to the killer they were on a look out for. The detective was lightly drumming his fingers upon the table before the doctor finally spoke up.

"People don't _have_ arch enemies."

It took a moment and a double take before Eleanor and Sherlock looked over at him with a near identical expression on their face before the detective finally responded, "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch enemies in _real life_. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull," Sherlock retorted in a dismissingly nonchalant manner as he tossed his gaze back at the window.

"You are your own worst enemy. I believe that to be an arch enemy in fact I couldn't think of a more _arch_ enemy that one could have whether it's literal or metaphorical, wouldn't you agree?" Eleanor inputted back at the doctor rhetorically.

Sherlock glanced momentarily again at Eleanor before glancing back at the window. He wasn't exactly a fan of psychologists, but he couldn't help but find Eleanor's words to be eloquent both in a psychological and poetic sense. John looked back at Eleanor before glancing at Sherlock again as he asked in an equally rhetorical fashion, "So who did we meet?"

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow as Sherlock quipped back, "What do real people have, then, in their _real lives_?"

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like…girlfriends, boyfriends—"

"—yes, well, as I was saying; _dull_."

"You don't have a girlfriend then?" John asked curiously.

The question instantly caught Eleanor's attention as she looked in the direction of Sherlock, but without actually looking at him as her gaze was more cast to the side than anything else, awaiting his answer. However, the detective continued to simply stare out the window while replying, "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

Eleanor wasn't in the least bit surprised considering that if this crime hunting was a daily routine for Sherlock, or at least it seemed that way, he couldn't possibly have someone romantically in his life.

"Mm…" John responded before a rather stranger thought him as he interpreted Sherlock's response in an _entirely different manner_ before further asking "…Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

Both the psychologist and the detective glanced at the doctor, Eleanor a bit more surprised by the question than Sherlock was as John further added, "Which is fine, by the way…" to which Sherlock immediately answered "…I know it's fine."

John smiled in an attempt to show he meant nothing insulting by what he said _or suggested_ before continuing to question, "So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No," Sherlock immediately answered again.

Eleanor fired her glances at John and Sherlock multiple times, her mouth a bit open for a moment before closing it and swallowing what felt like a lump in her throat as she simply kept quiet and listened to their words and watching their mannerisms. The doctor's questions were obviously a bit awkward at this point as John did his best to try to recover from it, "Right. Okay." He chuckled nervously while licking his lips. "You're unattached, like me…" he throws his gaze down at his plate "…fine…" clearing his throat "…good…" and then continues eating, leaving both the detective and the psychologist in a mental awkward bind.

Sherlock studied him out of suspicious observations before bringing his glance ironically to Eleanor who seemed a bit expressionless without knowing what words to form or response to add to the conversation as she too threw her glance to the side _licking her lips as well_ and finding it a bit difficult to hold back a smile that was out of a defense mechanism more than it was a positive emotional reaction to what was just said. She didn't know what to think as Sherlock suddenly got the notion of a thought upon rethinking what John had asked him.

His eyes shifted a few times side to side in indication that thoughts were running through his head as he looked down awkwardly before stating to the doctor in an attempt to be polite, "John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest—"

"—no—"

John knew exactly what Sherlock was stating as he immediately began to object in interruption.

"—really not looking for any—"

"—No…" John interrupted again "…no I'm not asking. No…" the doctor stammered while shaking his head to get his thought across correctly before it goes horribly awry "…I'm just saying, it's _all fine_."

"Good…" Sherlock nodded, glad to see John wasn't going to continue to press him on the matter and would humbly accept things as is "…thank you."

"You _should be_ married to your work," Eleanor inputted, staring at the table before bringing her gaze to Sherlock as he glanced back, looking into her eyes before she finished off her statement with, "…it shouldn't be any other way. If you can't do what you're passionate about, you might as well be dead…in…inside. No one has the right to stand in the way of that or expect you to do anything less."

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. What an interesting poetic yet logical way to put things.

She smiled back, but the moment was cut short as his eyes darted at the window and his head motioned at Eleanor to stare in the direction he was staring, "Look across the street. Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in and nobody getting out."

An idle black taxi sat silently by itself, but upon closer view a single man could be seen sitting in the back while the driver kept his head faced forward.

"Why a taxi? Oh, _that's clever_. Is it clever? _Why's it clever?_"

John looked along with Eleanor intently at the taxi across the street.

"That's him?" The doctor inquired.

"Don't stare," Sherlock instructed as Eleanor quickly looked away without hesitation.

Of course John stated back, "Un…_you're_ staring."

"We all can't stare," Sherlock quipped back as he quickly grabbed his coat and scarf from Eleanor's hands and immediately left out the door, the psychologist and doctor quickly to follow in a hurry as John accidentally left his walking cane at the bench.

Upon joining up with the detective outside, they all were quickly putting back on their coats and situating their clothes while keeping locked eyes upon the taxi; Eleanor on Sherlock's right while John stayed on his left. The passenger in the back of the taxi looked around until his gaze became fixed on Sherlock's, realizing the detective was staring back at him. Bringing his attention back to the front of the taxi, the cab begins to pull away. In a heightened rush, Sherlock starts a dash after the car, but suddenly he feels a hand pressed firmly against his chest as Eleanor yelled out his name in a scared shriek, holding him back seconds before a car drove by and almost hit him. Sherlock let out a light gasp as he glanced quickly at Eleanor while commenting, "Good reflexes."

With the car finally passed Sherlock dashed down the street with Eleanor and John beside him as he stopped upon seeing the taxi driving away as they wouldn't be able to run after it.

"I've got the cab number," John stated as Sherlock commented back, "_Good for you_."

Within seconds, a visual map popped up inside the detective's head as he began to make mental routes ithat he could take to cut the taxi off in a different location; thoughts firing back and forth with rapid strategy with his hands up beside his head to help him concentrate on the most likely paths the taxi would take.

"Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Looking ahead Sherlock notices a man unlocking a door as the road sign _Alternative Route_ flashed through his mind. Racing towards the man he grabs him and pulls him aside.

"Oy!"

Eleanor quickly followed second in line as the two rushed through the entrance. John was third as he rushed up while throwing up a hand in an apologetic manner, "Sorry!"

Racing up a thin walled stairway, the trio's hearts began to pound as Eleanor and John blindly followed Sherlock on his crazy detour, road mapping his way to the taxi as they were now hastily going up a spiral metal staircase. Sherlock was the quickest of the three, Eleanor the second and John the third mainly because of his leg that ironically wasn't bothering him.

"Come on, John," Sherlock muttered audibly as he made it to the top and out an entrance doorway that lead to a rooftop.

Quickly making it to the outside of the rooftop, Sherlock makes haste towards a similar spiraling staircase that connects to the side of the brick building. Speeding down the steps, Eleanor and John were close behind, but just when they catch up, Sherlock is already jumping from the side gate railing to a lower level rooftop. It only took a moment before the psychologist and the doctor jumped down to join the detective. Of course by the time they catch up yet again, Sherlock was already careening across the rooftop to another as John and Eleanor stopped at the edge simultaneously as a pedestrian traffic light changes from a "time to cross" to a "time to wait". The gap seemed a bit big to jump, even for Eleanor. She's given chase before, but not quite like this.

"Come on you two, we're losing him!" Sherlock yelled from the other side.

John and Eleanor glanced at each other as the psychologist said, "Ready on 3, okay? 1…3!" She yelled, purposely skipping a number as they both took a few paces back and then leaped with faith to the other side, making it barely just as the pedestrian sign turned green. Sherlock was soon leading them to the other side, met again with yet another staircase that had your typical rectangular design instead of a spiral. Finally making it to the bottom, Sherlock races them towards a ledge as they jump down and continue onwards towards the taxi.

Coming down an alleyway, the taxi starts heading through D' Arblay Street, causing the trio to come towards them in a T-intersection sort of fashion, but by the time they make it finally to the end of a connecting alleyway, the taxi speeds past them towards the left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock yells in a tired but frustrated fashion.

John went in the direction of the taxi, assuming that's what they were going to do while Sherlock went to the right in the opposite direction. Naturally wanting to go after Sherlock, Eleanor grabs John by the jacket sleeve and pulls him towards her, "No, this way John."

Redirecting his pace, John quickly runs with her, "Sorry."

Mapping out a new route in his head, Sherlock takes them down Berrwick Street while the taxi goes down Noel, causing their paths to cross yet again, but of course the taxi goes flying by them. It was a wild goose chase to say the least as the three of them rushed past citizens on busy streets while cutting into connecting alleyways, blasting past various road signs. It wasn't long before finally Sherlock had made way to the end of the path he was taking them as he ran adjacent from the other side of a street and right in front of the cab coming towards him as he threw up his hands, slammed them for a split second upon the hood of the car and pushing off from it to the left side. The taxi came to a final halt as Sherlock yells out, "Police! Open her up!"

Heaving and panting breaths from so much movement, he quickly grasps upon the door's handle and opens the passenger side. Eleanor and John soon joined his side as they stood behind him. Using the moment to stare and study the passenger Sherlock quickly deduces that it's not the man they're looking for. Genuinely exhausted, Sherlock straightens up, "No…" before leaning over and looking back at the man who was _clearly baffled and confused_ "…teeth, tan, what; Californian?"

Taking a glance down at the passenger's feet Sherlock notices a suitcase tag as he announces aloud, "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could you possibly know that?" John inquired.

"The luggage."

_LAX: Los Angeles International Airport to LHR: London Heathrow Airport_

The man continued to keep his jaw dropped lightly, darting his eyes at the three strangers and wondering what the hell was going on.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?" Sherlock further questioned him.

"Sorry…are all _three_ of you the police?" the passenger finally asked in an American kind of accent, finding it a bit hard to believe.

"Yeah…" Sherlock quickly answered as he halfheartedly flashed up an I.D. badge for only two seconds before asking further "…everything all right?"

"Yeah," the man smiled nervously with an _are you shitting me_ disbelieving expression on his face.

Sherlock nodded while taking a few more breaths before finalizing the situation with a sarcastic smile, "Welcome to London." He then immediately walked away as Eleanor followed behind him, chuckling lightly to herself.

John then went up to the man lastly with a simple, "Er, any problems, just let us know," until he finally shut the door leaving the man more or less disconcerted with what just happened.

It wasn't until John joined up with Eleanor and Sherlock some odd feet away from the taxi that he stated, "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically," Sherlock answered, looking back at the cab.

"Not the murderer," John stated further.

"Not the murderer, _no_" Sherlock confirmed with tiresome disappointment.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go."

Eleanor stayed quiet, smiling to herself as she was bent over lightly with her hands resting on her knees, huffing for air as it felt so good to just stop and get a breather. She hadn't chased after someone like that in the longest time. It was thrilling and she was ever so glad she was a part of it all.

"Hey, w-where did you get this? Here," John interrupted as he took the I.D. badge from Sherlock's hand, the detective releasing it to him.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John read the name on the card in question.

Eleanor immediately looked up at Sherlock and asked, "Wait, you took his I.D.?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's _annoying._ You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

It was then John and Eleanor suddenly started genuinely chuckling together about the situation as it caught Sherlock a little off guard as he asked, "What?"

"Nothing, just; _welcome to London_"

"And this, gentlemen, is _exactly_…" taking another deep breath "…why I have these shoes."

The three then smiled and chuckled together as Eleanor looked down the street and saw that the passenger was still there with the taxi and talking to a street security guard, pointing at them.

"And it's time to _leave_…" Eleanor inputted as she quickly got beside the two, tugged them both by the arms before jogging away again, "…cheerio!"


	8. I Bet Your Life On It

**Ch.8 ****I Bet Your Life On it**

It took a bit of time, but they finally made it back to the flat, the trio entered, filling the small entranceway with huffing and panting while hanging up their coats.

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John panted as he leaned up against the tan and textured colored wall, Eleanor on his right while Sherlock on his left.

"That was the most ridiculous thing…I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock jested, causing the three of them to giggle and laugh.

"That wasn't just me," John replied, smiling genuinely along with Eleanor and Sherlock.

Eleanor couldn't help but personally get the feeling that it had been a while since _any of them_ had smiled in such a manner…laughed in such a manner that was genuine and pure; a moment between good friends. And they had only just met…

_…only just begun._

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John asked finally.

"Oh…" waving his hand about "…they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John asked further as Eleanor playfully inputted, "Just passing the time with a side dish of clue hunting. Right Sherlock?"

She chuckled at him as he chuckled back with a quick second cock of his eyebrow, "Quite right. And proving a point if I might add."

"What point?" John inquired.

"_You_…" looking off towards another flat's entrance door while yelling "…Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs with Eleanor!"

"Says who?" the doctor continued to question.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock motioned with his head upon answering and smirking.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

John went to the door upon hearing the knocking as Eleanor watched from the sidelines along with Sherlock. Opening the entrance and meeting the knocker on the other side, John was greeted with Angelo from the restaurant who apparently had brought John's cane with him that the doctor had left behind.

"Sherlock texted me…" Angelo greeted as he handed the cane to the doctor "…he said you forgot _this._"

John clasped his left hand upon it, almost in awe of the fact that not only did he leave his cane behind, but the matter of his psychosomatic limp seemed to have been put aside thanks to Sherlock taking him on an adventure.

"Ah…" John stammered as he looked back behind him at Sherlock who was grinning at him before turning back to Angelo with gratitude "…er, thank you. Thank you."

Eleanor lightly shook her head. She couldn't help but be grateful that in such a short period of time, already being around Sherlock was having its inadvertent affects, John practically and nearly completely over his psychosomatic limp. It was an endearing thought, but a quickly interrupted one as Mrs. Hudson finally came out from her flat with a rather disturbed look on her face as she walked up to Sherlock with a tissue in her hands.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked in concern.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the detective inquired back.

"Upstairs," she directed as the trio glanced momentarily at each other before following Sherlock up the stairs to their flat.

With an abrupt grasp upon the door handle and swinging it open, Sherlock entered to find a rather relaxed inspector Lestrade sitting on his green leather chair comfortably, obviously having made himself at home.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded to know in a low key _obviously annoyed_ kind of tone upon approaching Lestrade with strong footsteps.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid," the fellow detective explained.

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock retorted back, annoyed.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't _break_ into your flat."

"Well what do you call this then?!" Sherlock bit back again with his arms swung out to the side in emphasis.

Lestrade looked around before he answered back almost in a sarcastic type of smirk, "It's a drugs bust."

"Really Lestrade? A drugs bust?" Eleanor asked rhetorically with an unenthused expression.

"Seriously? _This_ guy, a junkie? Have you _met him_?"

Sherlock slowly turned towards the Doctor "John," giving him _a look_, but the doctor continued at Lestrade, "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call _recreational._"

"John, you probably want to shut up _now_," Sherlock urged quietly to the doctor.

"Yeah, but _come on_."

And it was then Sherlock stared at him with a quiet yet stern expression for a moment before John realized, "No."

"What?"

"_You?_"

"Shut up…" he commanded, turning his attention to Lestrade "…I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade replied.

"Wh-An…" Sherlock stammered as his attention was turned towards the kitchen as Anderson popped his head out with his gloved hand up, twiddling his fingers about in a silent mocking type of manner "…Anderson what are you doing here on a _drugs bust?!_"

"Oh I _volunteered_," Anderson replied in a sneering tone.

"They _all_ did. They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very _keen._"

Sherlock nearly bared his teeth, licking his lips in an irritated fashion before Donovan cut in from the kitchen with a glass jar in her hand, "Are these _human eyes_?"

"Put those back," Sherlock commanded strongly with a motion of his hand.

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an experiment," the detective further explained in frustration. He hated the idea of _anyone_ rummaging around his flat without permission let alone touching anything that could ruin the results of an experiment. It was so invasive.

"Come on, this isn't about a drugs bust Lestrade. Obviously you're here about the case. Leave his stuff alone so we can _all_ continue where we left off. Does that sound good to you?"

"I'll stand them down if you can convince your new flatmate to _help us properly,_" Lestrade responded back to Eleanor, directing his statement towards Sherlock.

"This is _childish_," Sherlock commented while pacing back and forth.

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

"Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to _bully me?_" Sherlock replied angrily.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

"I am clean!" Sherlock proclaimed audibly.

"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade further asked.

"I don't even smoke," the detective further insisted as he unbuttoned his left shirt sleeve and pulled it up to reveal a nicotine patch on the inner part of his forearm.

"Neither do I…" Lestrade joined in beside him as he mimicked the same motion while revealing a nicotine patch on his arm as well "…so let's work together. We've found Rachel."

Quickly getting Sherlock's attention, "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as his thoughts darted about in his mind, "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind _that_, we found the case…" Anderson interjected as he pointed at the pink suitcase in the living room "…according to _someone_ the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Eleanor's teeth clenched as she was about to rip Anderson a new one before Sherlock retorted back in a clever condescending manner, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Turning back to Lestrade the detective gave further instructions, "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade answered grimly.

"Excellent-how-when-and-why?..." Sherlock sputtered verbally in an incredibly quickened fashion before toning down the speed of his talk to a more coherent speech "…is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Both John and Eleanor let out a silent exhale at the news. However, like Sherlock, Eleanor was going over theories in her head that was similar to Sherlock's, finding it odd that a dead woman would _scratch_ her stillborn's name into the floor. Something was off. Something wasn't quite right.

"No, that's...that's not right. How...why would she do that? _Why?_" Sherlock verbally thought out loud rhetorically in confusion.

"Why would she think of her _daughter_ in her last moments? Yup, sociopath; I'm seeing it now," Anderson continued to mutter his nonsensical thought patterns.

Turning towards Anderson, Sherlock explained in a more logical response, "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was _dying_. It took _effort_. It would have _hurt_…" pacing about the room again as Eleanor sat upon the dark pink sofa chair with commentary "…Sherlock's right. Something's off."

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he...I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was _ages ago._ Why would she still be upset?" Sherlock responded in loud question, causing the entire room to go silent as Sherlock realized everyone in the flat had stopped what they were doing. He noticed even Eleanor had the same expression on her face as John before he finally questioned, "Not good?"

John glanced around the room before replying, "Bit not good, yeah."

Dismissing the moment, Sherlock approached John and lowered his voice a bit before asking, "Yeah, but if you were dying…if you'd been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

It didn't take much for John to answer, "Please God, let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock responded in exasperation since apparently he was the only one thinking what he was thinking."

"I don't have to," John exclaimed with a hint of tenseness in his face upon answering.

Sherlock could easily see the shift in expression, showing indication that with John's background as an army doctor, it's quite plausible that the man could have been more than once, in a situation that tested his life. Realizing his statement might have went a bit harsh, Sherlock repositioned his stance and calmed his tone, "Yeah, but if you were clever, _really clever_…Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers? She _was_ clever."

He started to pace again with his hands in his familiar praying position, resting against his lips as Eleanor commented in agreement, "She's trying to tell us something."

"Yes, _exactly_," Sherlock approved.

Both the psychologist and the detective reeled about in their minds with different thoughts and theories until Mrs. Hudson came into the room, "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi, go away!" Sherlock commanded with a motion of his hand as he continued to pace frustratingly about the room, Mrs. Hudson looking about and finding the entire situation so dreadful.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John explained to her.

Sherlock's body language heightened with each passing second as it became more abrupt in footsteps, indicating frustration and attempting to think in the moment as his hands were placed up beside his temples.

"They're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers," Hudson worried in a trivial manner.

All the ruckus finally caused Sherlock to burst as he shouted, "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My _face_ is?"

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Your _back_, now please!"

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock thought to himself.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson insisted in question.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted furiously at her, causing her to finally shut it, hurrying down the stairs as the detective stopped upon an epiphany of thought.

"Oh…" grinning on the thought "…ah, she was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and _she's dead._ Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked, the question causing Sherlock to literally stop in his footsteps as he turned towards the inspector with an almost shocked expression on his face, wondering if it could be more obvious.

"Wha…what do you mean _how_?"

The inspector shrugged, lost in words _and thought_.

"Rachel!" Sherlock shouted aloud, his hands falling to his thighs as they lightly slapped upon them. Everyone however was in a point blank of mind.

"D-Don't you see? _Rachel_!" He raised his hands again in emphasis.

The entire flat stared at him blankly, not at all making the connection or jump that Sherlock was going with as the detective let out an audible voiced sigh, "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing…" and then in a sterner voice he began "…Rachel is—"

"—a password," Eleanor interrupted, causing the room to go silent again as everyone looked at her, making her instantly hush-hush.

"Say that again," Sherlock insisted, his face lit up upon her response that he wasn't at all expecting from the lot.

"Uh…a-a password? I noticed before that her luggage tag has an email address. So maybe Rachel is her email's password?" As confident as she was in her idea, it didn't come out nearly as convincing.

"Yes, YES! Oh you brilliant woman!" Sherlock nearly shrieked upon someone finally even remotely making the jumps he was making as he rushed over to the computer, asking aloud, "Eleanor if you could be so kind as to tell me the email address _please!_"

Smiling to herself, Eleanor fiddled with the luggage tag in her hand as she read aloud, " .uk" before getting up and standing behind Sherlock to his right while John stood to the left, looking also in curiosity.

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled."

Starting up Mephone's website, the detective begins to type in the address in the username box.

"So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address..." and then typing in the password box "…and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel," John answered, looking over his shoulder and once again astounded by the detective's deductions.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson remarked in a snarky comment.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade suggested.

"We know he didn't," John confirmed at the inspector before turning his attention back to the laptop screen.

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" Sherlock urged at the laptop.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson came strutting up the stairs again as she came into the room, "Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver—"

"—Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Sherlock interrupted upon getting up from the chair, adjusting his jacket, and making his statement directly at the landlady before walking over to Lestrade and his team.

John sat in Sherlock's place as he kept an eye on the screen, the clock spinning around on the website in attempts to search for the phone's location. Eleanor however was left standing in bewilderment upon a hunch that crept up on her, but she wasn't quite sure what it was she was sensing. This was the second time Mrs. Hudson had bothered Sherlock about a taxi _he didn't order_, so why was the taxi still there instead of going about their nightly routine to find a patron that would take them?

"We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter," Sherlock instructed Lestrade.

It was then Eleanor noticed a shadowed figure coming up the stairs as Mrs. Hudson looked anxiously behind her at the man that was slowly coming into view, but still in the staircase's shadow. What did the cabbie want so badly?

_Shudder._

"We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade explained.

"It's a start!" the detective insisted.

Suddenly, the map on the screen zoomed in upon finally locating the phone's exact position and where, giving John a bit of an alarm as he called out Sherlock's name a bit audibly.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had," the detective continued to explain to Lestrade.

"Sherlock," John stated his name again as the detective finally went over to John and looked over his shoulder. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

Eleanor took a step closer too, drawing her attention away from the entrance as she saw the address the GPS showed, another chill going up her spine.

"It's here. It's in 221 B Baker Street," John answered, a bit surprised and stumped.

The whole room froze as Sherlock immediately shot up his head in thought, "How can it be here? _How?_"

"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggested as Sherlock began looking around the room.

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me?_ _I_ didn't notice?"

Eleanor stood silently in her spot as she began to hear more audible footsteps coming up the stairs. She was the only one that seemed to notice as she saw a funny a little man with a cabbie necklace ID around his neck, a pale tan sweater and hat that shadowed over his face. A third and final chill struck her as she stared at the man.

"Oh god," she muttered to herself, a thought finally falling upon her.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John confirmed as the inspector turned to his team and gave them further instruction, "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim."

"Sherlock," Eleanor whispered nearly but he had already tuned people out.

Going up and placing a firm hand upon the detective's right shoulder with her right hand, Eleanor finally got his attention as he looked adjacently over into her eyes, "Sherlock…" stating his name with a worried tone "…th…the cabbie. It's…it's the cabbie," she whispered.

"What?"

"When we were walking to the restaurant, you talked about the killer being someone who hunts in the middle of a crowd…" her words caused Sherlock to rapidly start piecing this all together "…who passes unnoticed wherever they go, but that we openly trust. Sherlock, it's the cabbie…the cabbie that you _didn't order_. He's here…right now," she ended her statement in a low whisper while taking her hand away, not wanting to alarm anyone, but most certainly wanted Sherlock to know. It was then Sherlock's phone beeped upon receiving a text, making Eleanor tense as she watched the detective take his phone out from his jacket.

_[Come with me.]_

The phone was facing him so she could not see what the text stated, but obviously the text was enough to get Sherlock's attention as the detective cast his attention to the doorway entrance, Eleanor looking towards it as well to find the cabbie already heading down the stairs.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked a bit worried.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine."

"So, how can the phone be here?"

"Dunno," Sherlock answered vaguely.

"I'll try it again," John stated as he began to pull his own phone out from his pocket.

"Good idea," the detective stated as he began to head towards the entrance and walking past Eleanor who seemed to stare at him just as blankly as John did.

"Where are you going?" the doctor asked curiously, finding Sherlock's responses a bit odd, but not as odd as they seemed to Eleanor.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

Eleanor could sniff a _fresh lie_ when she smelled one, of course at this point she and Sherlock were the only ones that knew that something was fishy with the cabbie that refused to leave so naturally the detective would follow after him.

"You sure you're all right?" John asked again.

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered upon hurrying down the stairs. Eleanor however wasn't going to just stand around as she stated to John, "I could use a little fresh air myself. I'll be right back, okay?"

John took them at their words, but he wasn't stupid either. He figured Eleanor was going to keep an eye on Sherlock and that was enough for him to not question anything further.

_-Outside-_

Upon opening the door, Sherlock stood on the first doorstep for a moment while adjusting into his coat. A black cab was sitting outside waiting for him as a man stood in front of it, leaning against the front passenger door.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes," the man stated.

Closing the door behind him, the detective stood idly, placing his hands in his pockets as he stated back with a near tugging grin, "I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

With very careful pulling and silent movements, Eleanor opened the door just a crack and placed her ear upon the edge so she could listen to them speak outside.

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street…" a flashback going through his head of the American sitting in the back of the cab outside the restaurant "…it was _you_…not your passenger."

"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible, just the back of an'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

Taking a few steps forward Sherlock asked upon looking up for a moment at the window of his flat, "Is this a confession?"

"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cause' you're not gonna do that."

"Am I not?" Sherlock asked back in inquiring suggestion with a cock of his eyebrow.

The cabbie paused a moment before stating, "I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to em'…and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing…" leaning forward "…I will never tell you what I said."

A silent moment passes before the cabbie starts to walk around towards the front of the car before Sherlock interrupts his walk, "No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result."

The cabbie stops and turns towards him as he quips back, "An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

Of all the questions to ask Sherlock Holmes, _that_ was the worst as Eleanor muttered to herself, "Oh god…Sherlock don't…don't play this game with him. You know what he's doing. Please…please don't."

Of course for a man like Sherlock…for a _genius_…all of this was always a game; a game to keep from being bored, a game to prove your intellect, or merely just doing it because you know you can get away with it, solve the case, and still keep your life. Either way, this was too intriguing for Sherlock to just walk away from as he watched the cabbie get into the driver's side and waiting for a response. Licking his lips, Sherlock took a few steps while looking around before bending over and peering through the open window of the front passenger side.

"If I _wanted_ to understand, what would I do?"

Casting his tempting look to Sherlock the cabbie answered, "Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer...and then you're gonna kill yourself."

_Clunk._

The cabbie and Sherlock suddenly look up as they heard the front door close again, finding a red headed woman standing at the entrance. Sherlock's mouth opened at first to stay something, but nothing it seems could come out.

"This is a little more than a _bit of fresh air_ don't you think?" She directed her question at Sherlock before directing her attention to the cabbie as she stated, "Don't worry, you don't have to rush off. I won't say anything to the police."

" Oh, yeah? Well sorry, but there's only room for one passenger," the cabbie stated back.

"I'm not here for a ride. I'm here to make a bet with Mr. Holmes."

The eyebrows of both men furrowed, finding Eleanor's proposition to be rather…_unpredictable._ The psychologist approached Sherlock as she spoke more softly while looking straight into his eyes with an emotionless expression.

"If it was anyone else…I would stop them right here and now, but you're not just _anyone else_. I've only had but a taste…of what you can do and from what I've seen…that's all I need to go off of. So…" looking down at the pavement for a second before bringing her gaze back up "…I'm going to make you a bet."

"And what bet would that be?" Sherlock asked, a bit intrigued with a quick second twitch of his head to the side.

"I bet…_your life_…that John and I can find you…before you presumably die."

The intriguing tension upon the air could be cut with a knife. Eleanor was not so easily read like she was upon first meeting her. It was easy to make deductions about her daily statements or how she carried herself, but this? No…this was something of an entirely different nature. It was…unpredictable yet amusing enough to really _grasp_ his attention.

"Instead of calling the police, you're making a bet with Mr. Holmes's life as the stake? Now that _is_ interesting," the cabbie interjected, causing Eleanor's expression to shift to a deadly stare as she bent over and peered through the window.

"Oh, it might be interesting, but don't misinterpret my words as careless action. I only make bets _I know I can win_."

The last of her statement could have easily sent a chill up their spine a she ended her words in a near threatening nature with a hint of darkness behind the intention.

"I see…" the cabbie responded upon looking into her eyes, knowing that if she was going to go to the cops, she wouldn't have bothered coming out here "…well then Mr. 'olmes. What's it gonna be?"

Straightening up her stance again, Sherlock and Eleanor locked gaze, once again her expression shifted to a deepened look of worry. She knew what game he was going to play and for whatever reason, she was letting him do what he wanted. Eleanor didn't have to say anything for Sherlock to see that just by looking at her face, he knew her intentions were for his well being and not necessarily for a bet. The bet was irrelevant. She didn't seem like a woman that would carelessly play with someone's life so it didn't bother Sherlock in the least. Most of all, he recognized that she wasn't going to deliberately get in the way of what he was doing. She trusted him to know what to do and _he trusted her._ That's all that mattered.

"A nice ride would be refreshing," he finally answered back to the cabby, still looking in Eleanor's eyes.

Eleanor's temples bulged upon her teeth clenching, her eyes wanting to well up with tears, but she wouldn't let them. The trio had barely began to flatmate and already Sherlock was diving into a purposely set snare. She didn't know what to think of the moment or how to feel.

"I'll find you," she stated lastly, holding out her hand to confirm the bet.

"I know you will," he gave a final answer upon shaking her hand before opening the back passenger door and getting in. Within seconds the engine purred before the cab finally drove off, leaving Eleanor on the pavement alone.

1…2…3…Go!


	9. Poker Face

**Ch.9** **Poker Face**

Staring at the window, John watched as Sherlock got in the car with the cabbie and drove away while Eleanor raced down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, but disappeared out of sight from the window's perspective.

"He just got in a cab…" turning towards Lestrade "…It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that…" Donovan jumped in with a familiar irritation to Lestrade "…he bloody left again…" bringing her attention back to the kitchen to the rest of the team "…we're wasting our time!"

"What about Eleanor?" Lestrade asked.

"She ran down the sidewalk, but I can't see where she went off to. I'm calling the phone again. It's ringing out," John explained while holding the phone to his ear.

No answer.

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade replied with a light shrug of his shoulders.

"I'll try the search again," the doctor stated while picking up the laptop.

"Does it matter? Does _any_ of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll _always_ let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All_ our time," Donovan whined again to Lestrade.

The two stared at each other for a moment while the beeping of the laptop's search could be heard, John still persistent on locating the phone again. First Sherlock leaves and then Eleanor disappears. Something was off and he had a feeling that looking for the phone's location would give him an answer.

Lestrade sighed, "Okay, everybody. Done'ere."

_-Cab Ride-_

Sherlock sat quietly in the back to the left, adjacent to the cabbie as he surveyed the streets of London while passing by.

"How did you find me?" the detective finally asked.

"Oh, I recognized yer', soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes!"

The detective looked over his shoulder through the back window to see if Eleanor was following close behind in her car, but he didn't see any car that was blue let alone the same model type and year.

"I was _warned_ about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff. I loved it."

"Who warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you."

"Who?" Sherlock wondered naturally while leaning forward to get a closer look at the things around in the front of the cab; the driver has left over shaving cream on the back of his neck and a photograph of a young boy and girl standing next to what looks like a woman, but that part of the photograph has been ripped off while the rest of the photo sits nicely attached to the dashboard.

"Who would notice me?"

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes," the cabbie commented, meeting Sherlock's gaze through the review mirror.

"I'm really not," the detective replied back.

"You're got yourself _a fan_."

"Tell me more," Sherlock stated casually while sitting back against his seat and looking out the window.

"That's all you're gonna know…" pausing for a moment before finishing "…in _this_ lifetime."

It wasn't long before the cabbie finally approached their destination. There are two buildings, both identical in every way, the only difference being is that not all the lights are turned on in the window panels. The right side was more alit then the left, but nonetheless identical. The cab pulled up more on the left side of the front parking lot then the right side as he came to a stop. The engine goes off, the keys come out, and the cabbie gets out and opens the passenger door opposite of Sherlock as he stared at the detective.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London. You know _exactly_ where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

Sherlock continued to sit in the car mainly to play along to see how this pans out, studying every move and listening to every word that was conversed. Anything he could easily pick apart and anything could tell him exactly what he wants to know, but most of all _this was fun_.

"And you just walk your victims? How?" the detective inquired, naturally curious.

Within seconds the cabbie slowly swung up his right arm with a gun at the end of it grasped in his hand.

Sherlock sighed audibly, finding this all rather predictable as he commented while casting his gaze to the side, "Oh, _dull_."

"Don't worry, it gets better," the cabbie ensured while catching Sherlock's attention again as the detective gave him _a look_.

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that…" the funny little man then lowers the gun "…don't need this with you 'cause you'll follow me."

The man then just simply walked off, leaving Sherlock to sit there as he let out a quiet huffed sigh knowing that he was going to do _exactly_ as the cabbie predicated; getting out of the cab and following. Minutes later a sleek blue Jaguar pulled up to the side of the street down from the buildings, its headlights already turned off upon close approach.

_-221 B Baker Street-_

"Why did he do that? Why'd he have to leave?" Lestrade asked while putting on his coat, hoping to get an answer from John.

The doctor shrugged in reply, "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?" the doctor asked back curiously.

"Because I'm _desperate_, that's why. I mean Eleanor has helped me on occasion more or less. She's done her fair part considering, but she can't do _nearly_ what Sherlock can. No one I've ever met _in my life_ can do…whatever it is he does, not in a hundred years…" walking towards the door entrance as some of the other team members were leaving "…and Sherlock is a _great man_. And I think one day, if we're very, very _lucky_, he might even be a _good_ one."

When the police finally cleared out, leaving him by himself, John felt it was probably best to go back to his own flat at this point since he had no idea where Sherlock went and Eleanor wasn't answering any texts. Approaching the front entrance he stops while clenching his fist, realizing that something familiar was missing like a ghost limb. _His cane_. He seemed to have gotten along without it at this point, but just in case he decided to take it with him anyway. Turning back around he goes towards the table where Sherlock's laptop sat as he grabbed his cane and proceeded to leave. The screen was turned away from him so he couldn't see that it was still searching for the Mrs. Wilson's phone.

_Bleepy deep. Deep. Beep…beep…beep._

The computer sounded before John could take another step as he turned towards the laptop, realizing it had found the new location to the pink lady's phone. Hanging the cane down on the top edge of a chair, John picked up the laptop to take a look and saw the newest location that was zoomed in on the screen. Realizing where it was at and having a bad feeling hit him, the doctor quickly closed the lid of the laptop and took it with him, leaving the cane behind as he scurries outside to get a taxi and phone Lestrade on the situation at hand.

_-The College-_

The cabbie opened a wide door to a dark and empty room, holding the door open so that Sherlock can enter. The detective slowly walked in as the cabbie let the door swing itself shut while he turned on the lights. The paneling fixtures above flickered ominously as the light reflected off the very long rectangular wooden tables that were lined up with consecutively spaced chairs. Was a rather decent sized classroom as Sherlock walked into it deeper, peering around the room and noticing a second entrance on the other side.

"Well, what do you think?"

Sherlock raised his hands lightly out to the sides without a response as if replying without actually saying, _"Think about what exactly?"_

"It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere."

The detective turned to him with an emotionless expression as he retorted, "No I'm not."

"That's what they all say…" the cabbie motioned with his hand for them to sit down at one of the tables "…shall we t'ak?"

The question wasn't really a question however as the cabbie had already sat himself down, not really giving Sherlock a choice in the matter. Sherlock however, since the beginning, had already decided to play along so he simply sat down opposite of the cabbie on the other side of the table without protest, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably while letting out an audible exhale.

"Was a bit risky wasn't it?" The detective began to ask while removing his gloves. "Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs. Hudson _and_ Eleanor will remember you."

The cabbie of course was unfazed as he replied, "You call that a risk? _Nah._ This…" reaching his hand into his pocket and digging around "…is a risk," and then pulling out his hand as he placed a small clear bottle with a silver cap upon the table.

Upon closer study the bottle carried a single pill inside, the pill itself being translucent and filled with tiny little dots that were mostly white, but mixed with some red dots as well. Sherlock studied it closely, taking in every detail and contour that he could soak up.

"Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do 'yer?" Sherlock's gaze shifted to the cabbie as the man stated further, "But you're about to. I just have to do _this_."

Slowly the cabbie brought out a second bottle from his right pocket as he placed it on the table, bringing Sherlock's attention back to the table as he started studying both bottles intently.

"You weren't expecting that, were 'yer?" the cabbie then leaned forward, "Ooh, you're going to love this."

"Love what?" the detective asked back sarcastically in a tone that was almost annoyed.

Leaning back in his chair the cabbie answered, "Sherlock 'olmes, look at you. 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me all about it."

The detective shifted in his position a tad as he tilted his head a bit and questioned in a more pronounced annoyed tone, "My _fan?_" The cabbie kept mentioning it, but refused to tell who or what.

"You are brilliant. You are _proper genius_. The science of deduction, now _that_ is proper thinking."

The compliments seemed to roll right off the man's tongue. Although Sherlock was dealing with a serial killer, he couldn't help but to be remotely entertained by the flattering remarks and admiration. It's not like it was often he heard such appreciation. Is it not the frailty of genius?

"Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad…" the cabbie stated rhetorically as he looked down almost in a silent anger "…why can't people just _think?_" as he then brought his gaze back to the detective who seemed to sit there so emotionless, calm, and overall unfazed by the entire situation. It was like staring at a wall…no…a _barricade_ that refused to move or react and no matter what you did or say, there was no way around it.

"Ooh, _I see_ so you're a proper genius _too?_" Sherlock finally spoke up in almost light mockery.

"Don't look it do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab? But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know."

Sherlock held the man's gaze before finally looking down at the table and asking, "Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bot'le and a bad bot'le. You take the pill from the good bot'le, you live; take the pill from the bad bot'le, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical?" the detective continued to ask as his eyes bounced back and forth between the bottles while analyzing them in every scrutinizing detail.

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Course _I_ know."

"But I don't," Sherlock stated, shooting his eyes back up to the cabbie.

"Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock further asked, hoping there was an actual point to this seemingly _dull_ pass time.

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one and then, together, we _take our medicine._"

A grin slowly creased across Sherlock's face. _Now_ it was interesting.

"I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't."

The grin stayed on Sherlock's face as he tilted his head again, staring at the bottles. There's nothing more enticing then playing with fire, watching it dance in the darkness, seducing you with its brilliant light and playful nature, promising to give you an evening you'll _never forget_.

"Didn't expect _that_, did you Mr. 'olmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them; you gave them a choice."

"And now I'm givin' _you_ one."

The detective looked up at him.

"You take your time. Get yourself together…" the cabbie encouraged while licking his lips in anticipation "…I want your best game."

"It's not a game. It's _chance._"

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move and one survivor. And this…_this_…is the move."

Bringing his left hand out from under the table, the cabbie slides the left bottle towards the detective. The glass grinded along the surface of the wood in a foreboding manner as it was stopped inches in front of Sherlock. The detective stared at it without moving an inch or showing any emotion. All that needed moving was his mind.

The cabbie stated it was a game of chess, but it was still a game _of poker_. In the game of poker, sometimes the only indication of you winning or losing against an opponent boiled down to body language. Body language can tell you everything you need to know if you know what signs to look for. In this case the cabbie, upon pushing the bottle towards Sherlock, dug his tongue against his front upper teeth and the detective definitely took note of it. Both bottles were identical in every way so the only leads the detective could go off of was studying the mannerisms of the cabbie. The only problem thus far was; did the cabbie dig his tongue against his teeth because he was nervous of giving the good bottle away? Or did the cabbie out of nervousness give the bad bottle to Sherlock, hoping that he wouldn't notice that he kept the good bottle to himself? In a game of poker this would be considered a double bluff, but of course there's the possibility of it being a _triple._

At this point it was more of a mental game than anything else, going off of pure gut feeling, something of which was more of Eleanor's area than Sherlock's. Further study would have to be done if anything was to be deduced at this point.

"Did I just give you the good bot'le or the bad bot'le? You can choose either one."

* * *

Upon arrival, Eleanor turned off the engine and slowly withdrew her keys while surveying the area. There was a taxi already parked outside, dark on the inside with no passenger or driver.

"They must have already gone inside."

Cautiously opening her door she placed one foot out on the unforgiving gravel surface and then the second foot as she finally got out of the car altogether, her eyes fixated on her surroundings. She lightly trembled both with anticipation and trepidation. Anything could happen and she didn't want to announce her presence to the cabby, wherever they were. Making sure her car was locked up tight she began to approach the main area. It wasn't until she made it halfway through the parking lot that she realized both buildings were identical.

"Oh you clever little bastard. Identical buildings. A good way to throw off the police let alone any unwanted party, but which one…" she stated in a quiet manner to herself as she studied both buildings "…did you choose?" Time was of the essence and she had to make her decision quickly if she was to get to Sherlock. After studying the entire area and noticing some interesting nuances upon careful study, she smiled and stated to herself, "Obvious. Of course. You're playing the card of _reverse psychology_. Whether it was intended or unintended, it's _well played._" And without further waiting, she entered to the right building.

Carefully opening the entrance doorway, she slipped inside. It was a rather lengthy hallway with multiple entrances to different rooms. Picking which building was child's play, but this…_this_ was more of a case of eenie-meenie-minie-moe. They could be in _any_ of the rooms. The only fact she could go off of was that they would be in a room that was lit up. Each victim was forced to take a pill and Eleanor agreed with what John stated earlier about the cabbie _talking_ to his victims so why would he talk to his victims in the dark? It didn't make any sense not to mention they'd have to be able to visibly see what they were looking at. So naturally, carefully and quietly going down the hallway she made sure to be as silent as possible especially when taking a sneak peek into rooms that were lit up, doing her best to not alert them of her presence there.

It took some time before she finally came to a room that had a double entry way. The first entry she came to had both doors closed, but each door had a singular circular window that could be peered through. Keeping her back up against the walling she inched her head upward until she could get a glimpse of the scene inside and there…sitting at a long table was Sherlock and the cabbie. She only looked for two seconds before ducking below to make sure no one saw her. A chill went up her spine as her heart pounded. From the little she could gather, they were sitting and talking, fixated on each other. She felt it was safe to at least take a longer look before making another move as she slowly popped up her head again and used most of her peripherals to get a better idea of what was going on. They were indeed talking as she could see their mouths moving. On the table she could also see two clear bottles, one by Sherlock and the other by the cabbie.

She ducked her head again. She badly wanted to know what they were saying. She could just stand and watch, but she would risk eventually being seen. Keeping her head ducked below, she inched her way past the entrance and then quietly made her way over to the other one.

The other entrance was _cracked open_.

This was an opportune moment, but now she had to be quiet more than ever as she slipped off her boots so that her feet wouldn't clunk against the ground as she sat on her bottom and kept her ear close to the cracked entrance. Now she could hear them talking and quite easily considering it was dead quiet everywhere else.

* * *

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?"

"Play _what?_. It's a fifty-fifty chan…_ce_."

"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' _me_. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a _triple bluff?_"

"Still just chance," the detective insisted.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance."

"_Luck_."

"It's _genius_. I know 'ow people think."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know 'ow people think _I think_. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead."

Sherlock was obviously not amused.

"Everyone's so stupid _even you_."

The detective then steadied his gaze back to the cabbie, still showing no emotion or giving any real indication of what was going on inside his head.

"Or maybe God just loves me."

Uncrossing his legs while pushing the side panels of his coat to the side, Sherlock straightened his position and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table while interlocking his fingers together as he stated with honest intrigue, "Either way you're _wasted_ as a cabbie."

* * *

John finally arrived on the scene as the taxi dropped him off at the front of the buildings. Like Eleanor he was a bit perplexed considering both buildings were identical. Looking around for a few moments he knew he had little time to make a decision so he decided to just pick one and go with it as he headed into the left building.

* * *

With his folded hands lifted in front of his mouth, Sherlock studied the cabbie intently. It was now _his turn_ to make a move.

"So…you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

The cabbie nods downward towards the bottles, "Time to play."

Putting his hands together in his typical praying position, the detective answered, "Oh I _am playing_. This is _my_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear…" Sherlock pointed out as it was something he noticed when they were driving to the college "…nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you."

An opponent has to be careful not to show signs of worry or distress as the cabbie did his best not to reveal any indication, but no one can escape the clever quick fashioned and hardened nature of the deductions of Sherlock Holmes without leaving a bit scarred. Logic in doses of a straight unemotional manner can easily dig up old wounds or touch upon deepened scars that could never really heal. Being reminded of the things you try to keep buried are nearly impossible to hide under such circumstances as the cabbie's eyes lowered to the left, showing clear signs that the conversation was rapidly, but silently digging at his heart.

"But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts."

The cabbie didn't show any further indication, but it was obvious to Sherlock that his deduction was hitting some sore spots as the cabbie continued to keep his gaze away, doing his best to hold his composure as he sat there silently listening.

Extending his index fingers Sherlock continued, "Ah, but there's more…" finally catching the cabbie's gaze again "…your clothes; recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least...three years old? Keeping up appearances but not _planning ahead._ And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about?"

The cabbie seemed to stare blankly at the detective now, showing zero indication of anything. The conversation only seemed to get at him when the family members were mentioned. Talk of death didn't seem to bother the man at all, but mention of his family members and his expression shifts. Obvious clue.

"_Ah_…three years ago; is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" the cabbie responded back nonchalantly.

_Dying._

"That you're a dead man walking."

"_So are you_," the cabbie responded in kind in a near venomous manner, almost irritated that Sherlock truly lived up to his reputation and could read him _so easily_. Sherlock was of course unfazed by the tone.

"You don't have long though, am I right?"

The cabbie then suddenly smiled as he answered, "Aneurism…" lifting his right hand and pointing to his right frontal lobe "…right 'ere."

Sherlock smirked lightly, satisfied that he was finally getting somewhere.

"Any breath could be my last."

The detective continued to shift his hands again as they clasped together, intertwining the fingers as he stated, "And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've _outlived_ four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism."

"_No_…" Sherlock corrected as he shot his gaze to the upper right "…there is…" shooting his gaze back to the cabbie "…something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. _Love_…is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

And there it was, the particular mannerism of digging his tongue against the front part of his teeth as the cabbie looked away and sighed, "_Ohh._" Sherlock of course noticed this. "You _are_ good ain't you?"

"But _how?_"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised," the cabbie responded back positively.

"Surprise me," Sherlock encouraged.

Leaning forward the cabbie finally revealed the last remaining puzzle piece, "I have a sponsor," before leaning back in his chair with a smirk across his face.

"You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

Sherlock's mouth was open a gap upon hearing the cabbie's answer before he asked rhetorically with distaste written across his face, "Who would sponsor a serial killer?"

The cabbie answered immediately in a tone that matched Sherlock's, "Who would be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in intrigue as the cabbie continued in explanation, "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man...and they're so much _more than that._"

Sherlock's expression shifted in a deeper twitching distaste as he asked, "What do you mean…_more_…than a man? An organization? _What?_"

"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter…" nodding his head down at the bottles again "…time to choose."

Sherlock then tilted his head to the left, gazing down upon the bottles as deductions spun through his mind. There was more than one way to skin a cat and he was deciding to not skin it at all. He knew exactly what he was going to do.


	10. A Name No One Says

**Ch.10 A Name No One Says**

A sponsor. Who would sponsor a serial killer? This was a good question indeed, but it wasn't the first time Eleanor had heard of such a thing. Years ago when she had gotten entangled with a serial killer, these were his exact words to her; _"Why you ask? Why am I doing this to yer'? I'm not doin'it for free. I got me'self a sponsor. There's a nice little incentive waiting for me when I'm through with you."_

But why now? Why so many years later? Was it possible these two events were connected somehow? Was someone behind the scenes pulling all the strings? The idea itself seemed a bit elaborate, almost considered to be one of those conspiracy theories not to mention it was so many years ago, and yet…a sponsor. It dug at Eleanor like a nail driven into a board. Hunches and gut feelings poked and prodded at the psychologist. She couldn't logically explain, but somehow…she knew…this is _all connected._ Two entirely different events spread out by many, many years and yet both events spoke of some anonymous sponsor. The sponsor was the key…

…but who? And _why?_

* * *

"Sherlock?!" the doctor yelled out the detective's name as he scurried down the darkened and quiet hallways, but he was getting no answer. He ran from entranceway to entranceway, but there were no occupants to any of the rooms. Where the hell was he? The doctor wandered as his heart rate pumped to the hastening movement of his legs.

Tick, tock…tick, tock.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I _could_ just walk out of here.

Pulling out the gun again, the cabbie let out an exaggerated sigh as he replied, "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head.

The detective smiled almost in a jeering manner.

"Funny enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun please."

* * *

Eleanor froze. She couldn't see, but she could most _definitely hear._ What the hell was Sherlock doing? The cabbie had a gun? Of course, why wouldn't he? How else would he persuade his victims to come with him? But if he had a gun, why was Sherlock asking deliberately for it? Did he know she was there and expected her to intervene? Or was he seeing something that she couldn't and was merely continuing the game in his own way? No…no she couldn't make that assumption. Carefully, but slowly standing to her feet, she withdrew her gun, hoping that cracking the door open a bit further wouldn't creak or alert them especially at such a fatal point in the game. However, considering they were more on the left side of the room than the right where she was located, she might have a chance to actually slip in, but keep herself behind the entrance walling.

* * *

"Are you sure?" the cabbie asked, a bit surprised that Sherlock was asking for the gun, but none of his other victims ever did.

"Definitely. The gun," Sherlock requested, still grinning confidently.

"You don't wanna phone a friend?" the cabbie tried to bluff, but it was obvious at this point that he wasn't going to win this hand.

"The gun," Sherlock insisted with the calmest composure anyone could ever have.

The cabbie's lips nearly curled as he finally squeezes the trigger and then a small flame…pops out the end revealing the gun to be a dramatic making of a lighter.

"I know a real gun when I see one."

Releasing the trigger the cabbie responded, "None of the others did."

"_Clearly…"_ the detective commented sarcastically "…well, this has been _very_…interesting. I look forward to the court case."

The detective then stood up and began to walk away with what was _supposed_ to be his final words, but then the cabbie decided to toss one more net to see if he could catch anything.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out…" grabbing the detective's attention just as he was grabbing for the door handle "…which one's the good bot'le?"

"Of course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then?"

Sherlock then opened the door, _but wasn't leaving_. The cabbie's words began to seemingly seduce the detective into playing one final game.

"No…come on Sherlock don't do this again. Don't make me come in there."

* * *

From a psychological standpoint, Eleanor was fairly confident that Sherlock knew what he was doing, but still part of her worried. Part of her nearly trembled at the idea that he was actually going to go back in there and take the damn pill, but one couldn't help but wonder if maybe Sherlock wasn't going to play _his own game_ with the cabbie. The cabbie had no ammunition to force Sherlock into taking it so maybe the detective was biding time? Putting on a final act to snag a witness at the last second to show final proof of what the cabbie was doing, dragging the cabbie into his own snare?

Was Sherlock…putting on a bluff?

Possibly…possibly.

Or maybe…possibly…Sherlock was stupid like the rest of us…doing something just to prove a point…to prove his intellect to himself.

Whatever the scenario or psychological theory ran through Eleanor's head, nothing was worth risking Sherlock's life over. She had to back him up _just in case_. Having already slipped into the room, she kept her back against the entranceway walling, her gun pulled out, aimed, and ready to fire.

* * *

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?"

The detective then shut the door.

"Come on…" the cabbie lured with a jolly motion of his head "…_play the game._"

Sherlock blinked a few times before he slowly started to waltz his way over, keeping his gaze on the cabbie the entire time until he finally came to the table and quickly swept his hand along it, grabbing for the bottle that sat in front of the cabbie instead of the one that was originally pushed to him. He then slowly waltzed on over to the other side of the table.

"Ooh, _interesting_," the cabbie stated aloud as he grabbed the other bottle, opened it, and stared at the pill that he took out from the inside.

Sherlock studied the pill carefully that rattled inside the bottle in his hand.

"So what d'you think…" the cabbie asked upon looking up at Sherlock "…shall we?" He then stood up from the table and faced the detective as they stood together. "_Really_, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough…to win that woman's bet for you? To bet your life?"

The detective slowly lifts his gaze, a silent smile upon his face.

* * *

After spending minutes racing through hallways and looking inside cold empty rooms, John came to a stairway as he raced up a flight or two until he finally burst into a room. Upon quickly looking around John was face to face with a window pane that showed him a clear perspective…on the wrong choice he had made. He was in the _wrong building_. And there…through the window he could see into the other building into a lit up room where the cabbie and Sherlock stood. They were unaware that they were being watched from both ends of the spectrum, but nonetheless John nearly panicked knowing that he had no time to race back over to the other building. If he was going to do something, _now was the time_.

Realizing the situation he was in and knowing that Sherlock could be in danger, he yelled out the detective's name in an echoing cry that could only be heard by himself, "SHERLOCK!"

Even though Eleanor had an advantage over John, having been there long before he did, they were both at an equal set of mind and _confusion_ on what to do. Was Sherlock really going to take that damn pill? They had no choice, but to aim their guns in a simultaneous fashion.

But who was going to shoot first?

* * *

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I _know_ you do. A man like you…" the cabbie dangled his bait through playful wording as Sherlock twists open the bottle's top and pours the pill into his hand "…so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

The detective didn't say _a word_ as his face held an emotionless expression, the pill between his thumb and index finger as he raised it up to the light for a continued examination.

"Still the _addict._ But this…" Sherlock then slowly lowered the pill to eye level, an oncoming anxious tremble surfacing as his hand began to shake with trepidation, but equal anticipation as the cabbie continued with a near poetic license to echo the words that seemed to reflect the detective's entire being "…_this_ is what you're really addicted to, innit?"

Was he wrong? Was he _right?_. This was the game that Sherlock always played, constantly tempting fate with his brilliance.

"You'd do _anything_…anything a'tall to stop being _bored_…" the two then simultaneously began to lift the pills to their mouths, inch by inch "…you're not bored now ar'yah? Innit goo—"

_—BANG!_

It was like time itself had stopped to the sound of a single bullet as it flew through the cabbie's left shoulder close to his heart and straight through, causing him to slam backwards upon the ground. Each remaining individual shook to the sound, Eleanor freezing in place for a moment as Sherlock quickly spun around to the direction of the bullet that had seemingly been shot through the window behind him. Cleanly sliding over the table and onto the floor, he ducked at eye level and looked through the bullet hole in the window to see who had shot from the other side, but there was no one there.

"SHERLOCK!" Eleanor yelled in a near cracking tone as she burst completely into the room, gun still in her hands, but hands that shook.

"Eleanor," the detective spoke her name, realizing that obviously she was not the one that had fired, but if she had not fired then who did?

The psychologist quickly came to the scene, seeing the cabbie lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood as she panted from the near shock. The cabbie coughed a bit, catching Sherlock's attention.

"Are you alright?" she asked as to which the detective quickly answered in an equal panting, "Yes, I'm fine," but his attention was focused on the cabbie as he looked down at the silly little man, grabbing the pill he had placed down upon the table earlier and held it up for the cabbie to see while nearly kneeling next to him.

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?!" the detective demanded to know, but he was getting no answer as he angrily throws the pill upon the floor at the cabbie, standing to his feet as he paced a few times.

"Okay, tell me this; your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me; my _fan_. I want a name."

"No," the cabbie answered weakly.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. _Give me a name._"

And for the first time Eleanor was witness to a much _darker tone_ that the detective so easily displayed. Her eyes continued to bounce between the two in a panting silence. Part of her wanted to stop Sherlock at this point since she wasn't a fan of watching someone about to be tortured, but she too wanted to know the name. It took precedence over everything else, but how far was Sherlock going to take this?

The cabbie shook his head wearily back and forth as to which Sherlock just simply placed his foot upon his shoulder and pressed downward, causing the cabbie to gasp.

"A name! Now!"

The cabbie gasped audibly in pain as Eleanor grimaced, but he still refused to speak. Eleanor couldn't see it, but the detective's expression hardened as he forced more weight onto the cabbie's shoulder in near anger.

"THE NAME!"

"MORIAR…TY!" the cabbie finally cried out in echoing agony, leading him to his last and final breath as he closed his eyes, his head tilting over to the side in a final silence. Finally getting the answer he wanted, Sherlock lifted his foot from the man and looked about the room, catching gaze with Eleanor. She looked pale and a bit shaken as she uttered the name back in question, "Moriarty."

"Does the name sound familiar?" Sherlock immediately asked to which Eleanor shook her head in reply, "No. I wish it did."

_-Some Time Later-_

It wasn't much longer before the police had finally arrived, crime scene investigators all over the place in both buildings as Sherlock and Eleanor were escorted outside. Wanting to give them a moment to collect themselves, they were then brought over to an ambulance truck that was open on the back end. They sat on the edge of the back, which was a pretty small spacing so their sides were nudged up against each other, of course neither of the two minding at all. Shock blankets were then placed on them. Annoyed, Sherlock quickly grabbed his blanket and tossed it to the ground, but Eleanor just simply let her blanket sit upon her back as she stared at the gravel quietly.

"Are you alright?" the detective suddenly asked, feeling the quiet trembling from Eleanor's side.

Eleanor gave him a quick glance before shooting her gaze back at the gravel. She opened her mouth to speak, but it took a couple of seconds before any sound actually came out.

"Sorry if this question seems stupid to you, but…do you…" clenching her teeth for a moment as she felt tears lightly well up in her eyes "…familiar with the studies of emotional triggers?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then I don't have to go into specifics, but…" shrugging off a chill going up her back as she closed her eyes shut for a moment before opening, inhaling and then exhaling deeply as she did her best to keep her composure "…years ago something really bad happened. Needless to say emotional triggers have been tied in with that event ever since and…its really ironic…" glancing at Sherlock occasionally "…a gun firing doesn't necessarily bother me at least not when I'm _expecting_ to hear a gunshot…but that gunshot…that came through the window…I wasn't expecting it and it just…hit me for a moment. I…the _sound_…froze me. It…" pausing for a moment as she lifted her hands and flexed them with a light shaking intensity as she then began to rub back and forth on the top of her knees that were bent up upon the edge of the bumper step "…still does. The sound opened a wound I didn't even know was there. That's what's nasty about emotional triggers. You don't know what they are or what kind you have until they just hit you out of nowhere."

She then stopped rubbing her knees as she kept her palms clasped upon them, trying to keep her naturally emotional side of her personality calm, but steady warmth topped her hand as she realized Sherlock had reached over and placed his hand atop her right. She then looked at him as they locked gaze. His face was emotionless and logical, but it was _calm_. Calm was all she needed.

"It's alright," he stated in a quiet deep tone.

Just from the moment of reassurance he could already tell that she was better as the shaking in her hand stopped and her bodily trembles began to steady. He felt so warm next to her. It was the greatest feeling in the world. She felt protected in his presence as she also felt protected with Watson around. There was nothing more comforting then knowing everything was alright. Eleanor then smiled as Sherlock took his hand away and stretched a bit as he quickly changed the conversation.

"So…how did you know which building we were in? What gave it away?"

"The way the cabbie parked. I don't know if it was actually _intended_, but I noticed nonetheless. Under normal circumstances I would have went off of pure gut feeling, but this wasn't a normal circumstance. Regular people naturally park closest to the building they are going in, but the cabbie parked more on the left side of the parking lot then the right. And what better way to throw off unwanted parties then to give _the illusion_ that you're in the other building by playing a simple reverse psychological trick. That and the right building had more lights on and considering that the cabbie _talks_ to his victims, they have to be able to see each other and you can't very well do that in the dark so there you have it. I mean yes any of the rooms could have been occupied, but in the end it was just a feeling I had so I went with it."

Sherlock then chuckled lightly.

"What?" Eleanor asked, smiling again.

"Clever," he smiled back.

"Uh…t-thank you," she lifted her eyebrows with surprise, clearing her throat. He really was genuinely complimenting her. She was at least expecting a little correction of some kind, but no…there was none.

"Don't worry about me, okay? I'm just glad _you're_ alright," she stated in a final thought as she tossed her gaze off in the distance.

"Are you sure you weren't just worried about winning your bet?" Sherlock suggested in an open jest as Eleanor almost chuckled in a shrugging playful denial, "I don't know what you're talking about…I really…"the two chuckling openly "…I really don't. Ahh, what a night." Sherlock then smiled again.

The moment was interrupted however as a paramedic put a shock blanket back on Sherlock's shoulders, annoying him instantly just as Lestrade had waltzed on over.

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"It's a shock blanket Sherlock," Eleanor commented in a chuckle.

"I'm not _in_ shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade jested as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got 'ere, but a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…" shrugging for a moment "…got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that…" Sherlock merely smirked as his thoughts sped through his head while standing up to give off his usual deduction.

"Alright, gimmie," Lestrade insisted.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon; that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence."

In the midst of Sherlock deducting, Eleanor noticed a familiar figure in the distance as she slowly stood up, removing the blanket from her back as she was just a shy step behind Sherlock's right, his description of the shooter suddenly becoming clearer as she smiled and realized who the shooter was.

"He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..." his speed talk slowing to a calmer pace as he noticed the same familiar figure standing in the distance that Eleanor was looking at "…and nerves of steel…" their dear John Watson just standing about idly as the detective and psychologist caught gaze with the doctor, Sherlock's talk trailing off.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade commented in surprise. Since when did Sherlock _ever_ tell people to ignore him?

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," the detective bluffed as he and Eleanor began to walk off towards John."

"Where're you two going?"

"I just need to talk about t-the rent."

"Yeah, we haven't had a chance to talk about it," Eleanor stated to Lestrade in agreement with Sherlock.

"But I've still got questions for both of you."

"Oh, what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Sherlock answered back annoyed, flipping the edges of the blanket up at Lestrade as Eleanor did her best to keep a chuckle from arising.

"_Sherlock!_" Lestrade pushed back.

"_And_, I've just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out as he gave a glance at Eleanor.

"I'm exhausted. We can do this later please?" the psychologist pleaded.

With Eleanor's confirmation Lestrade finally gave in, "Okay. We'll bring you both in tomorrow. Off you go."

Finally free, the two walked off as Lestrade smiled lightly. Coming up to a police car Sherlock striped his blanket and tossed it through the driver's window as they then joined up with John behind the security tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful," John tried to play it off innocently as Sherlock looked at him for a moment.

"Good shot," he stated quietly.

"Very good shot. Even better than me," Eleanor admitted in addition to the commentary.

The doctor made a light smacking noise with his mouth as he nodded almost in exaggeration as he tossed his gaze to the left in agreement, "Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, _you'd_ know."

"Yeah, it's not working John," Eleanor jested, shaking her head as the doctor had no comment, tossing his gaze between the two.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

The doctor cleared his throat as he continued to look around almost as if he was anxious about something, causing Sherlock to ask him the same question he asked Eleanor earlier, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man."

"Yes, I…" the doctor stammered in thought as Sherlock studied him closely "…that's true, innit? But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

The detective nodded upon seeing that John truly was okay, "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a blood awful cabbie."

The trio then chuckled as Sherlock turned away from the crime scene and began to lead them off, "That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here."

The three then chuckled harder as John insisted, "Stop, stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it."

"You're the one who shot him, don't blame me," Sherlock commented in a low mumble just as they were passing by Sergeant Donovan.

"Keep your voice down—sorry, it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock faked an apology at Donovan as they walked away from her.

"Well at least he wasn't wearing pink," Eleanor commented further, causing the three of them to chuckle once more.

"You really do hate pink don't you?" John asked.

"I really do. It's such a dreadful color, at least by itself. It's just so…so…_pink_."

"What about purple?" John asked again.

"Purple's fine, but I prefer _blue_."

The trio took a few grouping of steps before John asked Sherlock, "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

Ironically enough that's exactly what Eleanor was wondering, but of course she had her own psychological theory in her head. Sherlock turned towards him and answered, "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up not to mention Eleanor was already there."

"Hogwash. You didn't know I was there. I'm _very thorough._ Neither did you know John would show."

"It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever," John further insisted, basically calling Sherlock on his bullshit more or less.

"Why would I do that?" the detective asked back to see what John would say.

"Because you're an idiot," the doctor and the psychologist answered, once again, in simultaneous fashion.

Sherlock did a quick second glance at the two, not expecting _both_ of them to answer, let alone at the same time as he then smiled. Calming the smile back down he then notioned at the two, "Dinner?"

"Starving."

"I'm starving more than you two combined," Eleanor jested.

"Well you _did_ skip out on eating last time, so who's fault was that?" Sherlock reminded.

"I wasn't hungry. It's not my fault if my stomach isn't hungry."

They turned again and began to walk off, John on Sherlock's right and Eleanor on his left.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

Not that far in the distance however, was a man that came out of a familiar black sedan, Eleanor and John tensing as they immediately recognized who it was.

"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about," John warned as they continued to slowly approach.

"I know _exactly_ who that is."

The detective didn't seem alarmed in the least, but Eleanor and John obviously didn't know any better as the doctor glanced at each other and then around at the police to see where they were located just in case he needed their attention. Eleanor however stayed close to Sherlock's side, ready to take her gun out if need be as she glared down the mysterious man.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited, though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked back, nearly annoyed.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your _concern_."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough…" Sherlock swayed with a light body motion in dripping sarcasm "…_no_."

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer...and you know how it always upset mummy."

John did a double take as Eleanor shook her head and muttered to herself, "Brothers. I knew it."

Sherlock however was not amused as he frowned in distaste, "_I_ upset her? _Me?_ It wasn't _me_ that upset her, _Mycroft._"

And finally the name was revealed.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's mummy?" John asked.

"Mother, _our_ mother. This is my brother, Mycroft."

The doctor could only just stare with a dropped jaw.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock suggested in insult.

"Losing it, _in fact_," Mycroft answered, brushing it off.

"He's your brother?" John asked for confirmation.

"Of _course_ he's my brother."

"So he's not—"

"—not what?"

"I dunno…criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock glanced up and down at his brother as he confirmed, "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a _minor_ position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock corrected in continued annoyance.

Mycroft simply sighed and Eleanor nodded to herself, getting a much better picture of the situation now.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic," Sherlock stated sarcastically as he began to walk off, Eleanor following behind him and John behind her, but the doctor stopped as he turns towards Mycroft and asks, "So, w-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft answered accordingly in a softer tone that seemed genuine enough.

"I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners," Mycroft stated while watching his brother from afar.

"Yeah…no. God, no…" John responded honestly as he half turns towards Sherlock and Eleanor "…I-I'd better, um…" before turning back to the nameless woman who was preoccupied with her phone texting "…hello again."

She looks up and smiles with a warm, "Hello."

"Yes, w-we met earlier on this evening."

The woman of course played dumb to act as if she had never seen him before and pretended to try to remember him, "Oh."

"She's not interested! Let's go John!" Eleanor shouted from a distance.

John sighed as Eleanor pointed out that obviously he was flirting…_again_ as he nodded with a, "good night" at both the woman and Mycroft.

"Good night, Doctor Watson."

Upon finally catching up to Eleanor and Sherlock, the doctor continued on about Chinese, "So, dim sum."

"Mmm. I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't…" "…yeah right," the doctor and psychologist called him on his hogwash again.

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"W-What?" Eleanor stammered in surprise, thinking that Sherlock was referring to her.

"Sorry?" John interrupted

"In Afghanistan. There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder. I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do…" John continued in quick talk with Sherlock as he looked over and noticed the detective smiling "…what are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"I've absolutely _no_ idea," the detective answered back to the doctor cheerfully.

"Sounds like a bitter tasting kind of tea if you ask me," Eleanor jested.

Watching the trio walk away, the strange woman turns to Mycroft, "Sir, shall we go?"

"Interesting, those two; that soldier fellow and…_that woman_. They could be the making of my brother…or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three, active."

"Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Eleanor Blackburn."


End file.
